


Red Right Hand

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hellboy - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Hellboy Bucky, Luis is a Fishbro, M/M, Magical Realism, Mutual Pining, Mythical Beings & Creatures, No-serum but still big Steve, Tell Guillermo del Toro I apologise for NOTHING, hellboy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-07 12:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 71,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16408433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: "Steven,” Erskine says, his expression shifting from kindly to something sharper. “Make no mistake, there are things that go bump in the night. And we are the things who bump back.”In 1943 Johann Schmidt attempts to open a portal to the nine realms to raise a demonic army against the Allied Forces. His efforts are thwarted by Abraham Erskine and the Howling Commandos, but not before something comes through - a child. A demon child, his body flame-red but for his silver left arm.Seventy years later Steve Rogers, still reeling from an encounter with a Djinn, is offered a job with the mysterious SSR, and comes face to face with the legendary Hellboy.





	1. Kurravaara, 1943

**Author's Note:**

> Ten thousand thank yous to Karadin for seeing my frankly outlandish summary and saying yes, that one. Check out their art, it's [DELICIOUS](http://karadin.tumblr.com)  
> Another ten thousand thank yous to the bestest beta [Eidheann](http://eidheann.tumblr.com/) who puts up with my nonsense, and to Krycek-asks for encouraging it. Special thanks to Layers and Vex for talking me into the title. Arr, me hearties.  
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com) if that’s your sort of thing

With the drawing in of the day the snow returns, settling in drifts on the roof of the church, and the Hydra soldiers gathered in the courtyard in front of it.  
Dugan lets out a groan, pulling down the brim of his bowler hat. “Are you kidding me?” he grumbles. “Why couldn't this mission be in the Bahamas, somewhere nice and warm?” He glares at the fat, white flakes as if each one has caused him personal injury. “But no, we gotta freeze out asses off in… where the hell are we?”  
“ _Kurravaara_ ,” Erskine replies, sinking deeper into the folds of his overcoat.  
“Yeah, well I’m with Dum Dum on this one,” Jones adds, hunched over the radio. “I’d rather be in the Bahamas.”  
“Yes, well we’d all rather be home warm and safe,” Falsworth sniffs, snowflakes settling on the brim of his cap. “But until Hydra set up a tropical resorts division, we’re dashed out of luck.”  
“You can say ‘damned’, Monty,” Jones grins. “I won’t tell your mother.”  
“They day you lot meet my mother, a few curse words are the least of my worries,” Falsworth says ruefully. “I spend enough time with you as it is, I don’t need you hogging all the roast beef on Sunday dinner.”  
“Sun's getting real low, fellas,” Morita pipes up, looking at the line of trees to the west.  
“Not that it’s done much else,” Jones grumbles. The sun had barely made its way past the horizon before skulking there, and now it was rapidly sinking back down behind the dense forests surrounding them. “Why the hell would Hydra be out here anyways?”  
“Polar night,” Erskine rolls onto his front and inches his way up the incline, before peering over the rise of the snowbank they’ve camped in the shelter of. “When the sun sets, it will not rise again for twenty eight days.”  
“A month?” Falsworth squeaks. “A whole month of darkness?”  
Erskine nods, watching as the soldiers lever open yet another wooden chest and heave out a carved piece of stone. They have been working non-stop, unpacking crate after crate and assembling the pieces of carved stone like some great jigsaw puzzle. Erskine can’t help but be fascinated, the way each stone slots together to form a great ring, intricately carved with a celtic knotwork design.  
Dugan slaps the back of Erskine’s coat in warning, and he shuffles back down on his stomach before he gets spotted by the guards.  
“I should have brought more candles,” Falsworth mutters.  
Dugan huffs. “I should have brought more beer.”

There is a commotion outside the church, and Erskine pokes his head up again, Dugan joining him this time. In the light of the torches scattered around the church, casting an eerie light over the proceedings, a short, panicky looking man comes out to pace in the snow. He stops short at the sight of the great carved wheel, letting out a loud whine as he scuttles away.  
“There!” Erskine points him out. “That is Arnim Zola, head of the Thule Occult Society and Johann Schmidt’s right hand man.”  
“That little fella?” Dugan snorts as the figure leans against one of the empty crates stacked outside the church doorway. “He looks like he wouldn’t say boo to a goddamned goose.”  
There is a shout from within the church, and Zola flinches, his head ducking down as if recoiling against a physical blow. He curses and straightens up, sucking in rapid gulps of air and exhaling plumes of vapour, before turning around and walking back through the open doors.  
Erskine watches his departure closely while Dugan slides back down the rise, brushing away the snowflakes that have gathered on the bristles of his bushy mustache. A few flakes land on Dernier sitting beside him, who flicks them away, before resuming his check of his pack. On paper Denier is their French ally and explosives expert. In reality he is pyromaniac with a gauloise hanging permanently from his lip, whose only grasp of English is curse words and pick up lines. By the blessing of Jones’ high school French, combined with Dernier's rakish charm, he is a valuable, if volatile, member of the team.

“To think a week ago I had never even heard of the word parabnormal,” Falsworth muses, giving his weapons a last check.  
“ _Para_ normal,” Erskine replies.  
“Hogwash!” Dugan snaps.  
“I wish I could agree with you,” Erskine shakes his head. “But if Zola is here the Nazis are getting desperate. They are combining-”  
“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” Dugan grumbles. “Nazi black magic, blah blah.”  
“You need to start believing me, Private,” Erskine warns. “Schmidt is a student of the occult, and Hydra is his lifetime's work. Do you seriously believe that we are hiding in front of a one thousand year old church, on the cusp of a night that will last a full twenty eight days, and there is no reason behind it? Do you think Schmidt is here, Zola is here, because they like the weather?”  
Dugan falls silent, glancing up the slope at the visible upper curve of the strange, carved ring.  
“Yes, well,” Erskine looks up at the dying of the light, as the last traces of sun fade from view. “I believe this is more serious than we first imagined.”  
“Well then,” Falsworth says firmly. “Let’s take a closer look, shall we?”

For all the men’s bluster, they are a hard-working, well-coordinated team, and Erskine knows he is lucky to be working with them. They call themselves the Howling Commandos, and the name is well earned. A rag-tag assortment of outcasts that didn’t fit anywhere, but work together with brutal efficiency. At Falsworth’s word, they start moving from cover to cover, using the stacks of crates around the courtyard to their advantage. They skirt around to the front of the church quickly and quietly, the snow muffling the sounds of their approach.  
The guards don’t stand a chance, and are brought down in unison with barely a gasp. Erskine turns away from the sight of blood spilled on the snow, closes his ears to the sound of bones cracking. He is a scholar, barely out of school, though men younger than he is are dying on the front lines. He knows this, but still he cannot abide violence, and his hands shake like the devil when handling a gun.  
The Howlies, good men to the last, do not judge him for not taking up arms. They may doubt his convictions, his stories of the Spear of Longinus and the Nazi’s dabbling in dark magic, but they have seen far too many horrors to doubt that such things might be possible.  
“Erskine!” Falsworth hisses, catching his attention. Erskine looks up, and sees Falsworth standing by the open doorway leading into the church, his face paling. “You might be onto something.”  
Erskine makes his way to the front of the line, and Falsworth steps aside as he peers into the church.

Johann Schmidt, dressed in black robes adorned with the Hydra emblem; a red skull flanked by six thrashing tentacles, stands in the center of the church, facing an ornate carving on the far wall.  
Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, flows across the surface, birds and beasts chiselled out of the smooth stones lurk in the roots and spread their wings on the outermost branches. A great serpent, Jörmungandr, winds its way up the trunk. The wall is a work of such beauty, so perfectly preserved, that Erskine's breath catches at the sight.  
A scholar could spend a decade decoding the ornate glyphs and sigils framing the tree, and still not have scratched the surface. Erskine aches to get closer, to study the sleek form of Ratatoskr climbing the lower branches of Yggdrasil, to seek out the four stags hidden among the carved leaves.  
Schmidt raises his right hand and clicks his fingers, motioning to the guards around him to get to work.  
They brandish picks and hammers and cudgels, pulled from one of the crates, and set to work smashing through the wall.  
Erskine claps his hand over his mouth before the yell can escape, and he watches in horror as the carving that has stood for a thousand years shatters and crumbles, revealing a hidden chamber.  
The walls are carved with images far too terrible to behold, of creatures beyond comprehension. In the center of the chamber is an altar, and on the altar lies a cube. The horrors upon the walls seem to dance in the light of the strange crystal, pale as the moon and just as unknowable.  
_What are they doing?_ Erskine asks himself. _What are they calling forth on the eve of of darkness?_

At Schmidt’s command the guards head out to the courtyard, and Dugan lets out a choked gasp of alarm. The Howling Commandos scatter, ducking behind the piled munitions and boxes in the desperate hope that no soldier will come their way, but gripping their weapons tightly in case they do.  
Dugan grabs Erskine by the scruff, dragging him bodily behind an open crate. He keeps one hand clamped over Erskine’s mouth, not trusting him to stay silent, and deposits him behind an empty wooden chest. Any urge to complain Erskine might have had vanishes as Schmidt, with Zola at his heels, walks out into the courtyard.  
“What the hell is that?” Dugan hisses as Schmidt raises the cube in his right hand, the glassy surface pulsing with light.  
Erskine’s heart hammers in his chest, so hard that he fears it might burst. “The Tesseract.”  
A hazy blue light starts to fill the ring, spreading out like frost across glass.  
“Bloody hell!” Falsworth, huddled behind a nearby crate, looks towards them. “What the blazes?”  
Erskine shakes his head, panic bubbling up from his guts, clouding his thoughts. An animal instinct to run near overwhelms him, and he drags his hands down his face, trying to think, trying to focus. He digs his fingernails into his cheeks, the pain sharp and grounding.  
“Schmidt is trying to open a portal,” Erskine babbles. “A… a portal to one of the nine realms. Svartalfheim perhaps, they call it Dark World. Or Niflheim, the land of mists and nothingness…”  
The light within the carven ring glows brighter, spreading until it fills the circle completely.  
“We have to stop them,” Erskine gasps as the light _ripples_.  
Dugan pulls out his handgun. “You heard him, fellas.”

Dernier lights a stick of dynamite on the end of his gauloise and pitches it over the crate he’s ducked behind. It lands a little ways behind Schmidt, and he quickly lights another before sending it after its colleague.  
The nearest soldier has just enough time to shout a warning before it blows, blasting a chunk of masonry and the three soldiers standing beside it to smithereens.  
The Howling Commandos burst out from their hiding places, their guns trained on the soldiers. They don’t hesitate, don’t issue warnings or tell the men to drop their weapons. They are facing Nazi soldiers, and any compassion that might have been felt for Hydra and the Third Reich had been lost in the shadows of Oświęcim and Sachsenhausen.  
Dugan and Jones start firing at the Hydra soldiers fleeing the explosion as Falsworth, armed with his trusty Lee-Enfield rifle, climbs up onto one of the unopened crates, picking off soldiers one by one. Zola lets out a high scream and staggers backwards, recoiling from the sound of gunfire and blasts of explosives.  
In all the chaos Schmidt does not even flinch, even when the second explosion goes off at his back, showering the courtyard with debris as his soldiers run. He brandishes the Tesseract before the carved stone ring as the light within washes outwards in waves, as though something were striking the light from the other side.  
Erskine, still sheltering behind his empty crate, stares at the ripples of light and energy flowing out from a place beyond man's comprehension. A portal, a gateway to another world.

“Dernier!” Falsworth yells and points to the light flowing towards Schmidt from the stone circle. “Shut the bloody thing down!”  
Dernier understands his wildly telegraphed signals, if not his words, and lights another explosive before pitching it towards the portal. It strikes the surface, which pulses in an oddly gelatinous manner before sucking the dynamite into its mass.  
Schmidt spins around, tracing the arc of the throw to where Dernier is still standing, mouth agape, and lets out a furious roar. There is a dull, percussive boom, and the surface of the portal shimmers, the great stone ring around it cracking.  
“No!” Erskine bellows as the stone starts to crumble, and the light within it froths and churns.  
It seems to draw back, sucking in on itself before blasting outwards, enveloping Schmidt in its mass.  
Zola, cowering in the red-spattered snow, lets out another howl and scrambles to his feet. Schmidt, thrashing and screaming as the light wraps around him, roars for Zola to come back. His body twists and contorts as the light drags him towards the open mouth of the portal, his limbs elongating and turning and unspeakably _wrong_.  
Zola looks back one last time, letting out another horrified wail before staggering out of the circle of torch lights, and disappearing into the dark wilderness beyond the church.  
The stone ring shatters, the carved stone blasted into sand, and when the circle is broken the light vanishes from within, taking Schmidt with it.

“Fellas?” Jones calls out warily, pulling Dernier to his feet.  
Falsworth, still perched on his stack of crates, rifle in hands and finger on the trigger, trains his sights on the rubble where the portal had stood moments before. “Look lively, chaps,” he says quietly.  
Dugan checks his pistol, and walks over to where Erskine is still hiding, offering a hand and pulling him to his feet.  
“I guess I stand corrected, Abe,” he says, his eyes wide. “Because that was a hell of a-”  
Falsworth aims at a pile of rubble near the church entrance and fires, and the other Howling Commandos scramble for their weapons, moving into formation and circling around the blasted remains of the door.  
“Falsworth, what the-” Dugan roars.  
“I saw something!” Falsworth roars back. “It ran into the church!”  
They look to Erskine, and Jones is the first to put voice to their fears.  
“That… portal,” Jones murmurs, not taking his eyes off the church. “Could something have-”  
“Yes.” They have been good to him, and in turn Erskine gives them the truth. “Something came through.”  
“ _Merde_ ,” Dernier hisses, and from within the church something is knocked over.  
Falsworth climbs down from his perch, and checks his ammo before pulling back the bolt on his rifle.  
“Steady as she goes, lads,” he mutters as he approaches the church, and the Howlies flank around him.

They step carefully over the debris littering the doorway, and at Falsworth’s wordless orders split up, spreading out to cover more ground. Dugan keeps Erskine behind him, one hand on his pistol and the other out to the side, keeping Erskine from moving forward into the range of fire.  
There is a sudden, low whine, and something hidden behind a chunk of stone darts out. Erskine sees a flash of red, a shine of something strange, before Falsworth opens fire. The shock of sound after a prolonged silence makes Erskine flinch, and Falsworth fires round after round as he tracks the creature across the floor. It’s moving a little too low, a little too fast for him to get a decent shot in, and it darts into the hidden chamber.  
“Whatever it is, it’s trapped now,” Jones says grimly, and he moves forward.  
The others keep in step, their weapons raised, and the creature scrabbles around in the depths of the chamber, searching desperately for an escape. The light from the church candles barely touches the walls of the chamber, and in the darkness they see another glimpse of something red.  
It doesn’t attack them. It doesn’t display power or menace. It cowers among the ruins of something ancient and once-beautiful, whimpering desperately, and Erskine’s heart lurches.

“Wait!” Erskine pushes his way past Dugan. “Don’t shoot!”  
“Erskine, get outta the way,” Dugan snaps.  
“Whatever it is, it’s made no attempt to hurt us,” Erskine reasons. “Lower your weapons.”  
The Howling Commandos look to each other dubiously, and lower their guns. Falsworth pulls a flashlight from his pack and switches it on, shining the light into the darkness.  
On the walls, the carvings seem to twist and undulate, their long, tapering limbs thrashing back and forth. There is movement, and a dull shine of silver that has Dugan reaching for his gun. “What the devil is that?”  
“Shh,” Erskine soothes, motioning for Dugan to lower his gun. “You’ll scare it.”  
“I’ll scare _it_?” Dugan says incredulously, but the gun drops again.  
Erskine crouches down. “It’s alright,” he tells the darkness. “You can come out.”  
Something peers over a pile of rubble before disappearing again, and Falsworth lets out a gasp.  
“What is that? Is it some kind of ape?” The creature’s hands creep around the edges of the boulder, one red, the other silver. “What’s it got in its hands?”  
“I think,” Erskine pats his pockets, looking for something to tempt the creature with. “I think that _is_ it’s hand.”  
All he has is a hip flask of schnapps to keep away the cold, and that doesn’t seem fitting. “Chocolate,” Erskine announces. “I need chocolate, candy, anything!”  
They search through their pockets, Jones coming up with some chewing gum and Dernier a tin of chalky little Vichy pastilles, but it is Falsworth who comes up with a square of British army rationed chocolate.  
Erskine unwraps the foil from the chocolate, and holds it out.  
“Come on, little one,” he croons. “Come on,” and the creature emerges from the wreckage.

“Dear god,” Falsworth whispers, and Dernier offers a few more colourful remarks that make Erskine’s ears burn.  
The creature climbs over the rubble and hesitates, flinching as the flashlight sweeps over it. It is naked, but for a scrap of cloth around its waist, and could almost pass for a boy of seven, maybe eight. Almost, were it not for its deep red skin, that covers every inch of its body but for its left arm, which seems to be formed of silver from shoulder to fingertips. Almost, if not for its eyes, a shade of blue that contrasts too strongly with its dust smeared skin. Almost, if not for the tall, curved horns that twist up from the tangle of its straggly black hair, and the thin, flexible tail that hangs limply behind him.  
It edges towards Erskine until it’s close enough to snatch the chocolate from his hand, and scrambles back to its hiding place. There is the quiet sound of determined chewing, and Erskine looks around.  
“I need a blanket, a coat?” He says. “Quickly!”  
Falsworth unbuttons his heavy felt greatcoat and shrugs it off, passing it over to Erskine. He shakes it out, still warm from Falsworth’s body heat, and calls out to the creature.  
“Come here,” Erskine calls softly. “Come on, you must be cold.”  
The creature pokes its head out from its hiding place, and climbs over the rubble again. It approaches Erskine again, a little less wary this time after a taste of chocolate, and he wraps it up in the folds of the coat.  
It could never pass for human, the shivering little creature, but Erskine can’t help the words that slip from his mouth.  
“There we are, my boy,” he says gently. “All safe now.”

 _My boy_.  
The creature curls up in the coat, and Erskine lifts him up, holding him close when it - when he - tucks his face into Erskine’s shoulder. He smells like hot sand and petrichor, and he twists his fingers together, red and silver interlacing.  
Dugan pulls the collar of the coat up, covering the boys exposed shoulder, and gives him a tentative pat on the back. “It’s just a little kid,” he says gruffly. “A little boy.”  
“He needs a name,” Jones says, watching how the boy moves his head carefully, wary of his horns.  
“Scratch?” Falsworth suggests, much to the scorn of the others.  
“What’s your name, my boy?” Erskine asks, ignoring the Howling Commandos as they quarrel back and forth.  
“Bu,” the boy’s mouth opens and closes, struggling to work his tongue. “Buch. Buq.” He frowns, frustrated at himself. “Buh.”  
“Alright, alright,” Erskine soothes, rubbing the boys back. “How about ‘Bucky’? Will that do for now?”  
The boy, Bucky, curls up against him, the points of his horns jabbing Erskine’s cheek.  
“So it’s decided,” Dugan claps his hands together. “Hellboy.”


	2. A Perfectly Good Butterfly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve swallows, tasting ash. “The Djinn said for my actions he would grant me my heart’s desire, and then. I don’t know what happened then. I blacked out, and when I woke up I looked like this.”  
> Steve holds out his arms, thickly muscled like his broad shoulders and his long legs. His glasses had been smashed when he passed out, but he could see fine without them. The asthma, the heart problems, all of it sloughed off like a snake shedding its skin.   
> Maybe a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis would be a better analogy, but Steve wouldn’t stand for it. He may have been small and dull and weak before, but he was no damn caterpillar, he was a perfectly good butterfly, thank you kindly.

The letter says to present himself at Camp Lehigh at 8am sharp, and little else. With no other options left to him, Steve pulls on his biking leathers and drives out to New Jersey.  
Some time spent online doesn’t offer much on the place; a Military training camp back in WW2, decommissioned after the war ended. It was repurposed as a base for the SSR - The Strategic Scientific Reserve, a private organisation that receives government funding, though for what purpose Steve can’t figure out. There are plenty of rumours; they capture aliens to be dissected and studied in secret laboratories. They raise clones of politicians and famous actors and keep them in tanks for organ harvesting. There’s even talk of Hellboy, New York’s infamous comic book character, battling the forces of darkness under their employ. Steve quits searching after that, he’s clearly not getting anywhere.  
A Brooklyn boy, born and bred, Steve can’t shake a sense of distaste when he crosses Goethals Bridge, driving up to the New Jersey turnpike.   
The miles slip past, heading southwest until he hits the Delaware river, tracking alongside it as it twists towards the Atlantic.  
It’s an odd place to set up business, Steve thinks as he turns the bike south. The roads become single-track lanes with little definition between where the road ends and the woodlands begin, and it seems like there are more lakes than land. 

Steve decides to stop and check his directions, pulling the bike into the verge and killing the engine. He doesn’t dismount, he can put a foot down to keep the bike upright, and doesn’t that take some getting used to?  
He pulls off his crash helmet and hooks it onto one of the handlebars before dragging his phone out of his pocket and pulling up his map. Commercial township looks like a Pollock painting; a canvas of green woodlands threaded with one-lane roads, spattered with innumerable daubs of blue. There are too many to name, and from the looks of his map, no one has bothered.   
He sighs, shoving the phone back in his pocket, and keeps following the road to its end.  
There are no other roads to take anyway, just one track meandering its way through the lakes until it reaches its destination. It’s like no Military installation he’s ever seen, hidden at the end of a tree-lined backroad with high stone walls and a heavy iron gate. It looks almost stately, and Steve keeps the engine running, half expecting to be turned away when he pulls up at the gate and thumbs the intercom embedded in the gatepost.  
There is a dull buzzing, and after a moment of waiting a slight rasp.  
“Whaddya want?”  
The accent is pure Brooklyn, high vowels and slurred consonants, and Steve feels an odd lurch of nostalgia. Not for a place, but for a time, when he was younger and smaller - a lot smaller - and listening to his ma talking to the neighbours.  
“I said whaddya want, kid?” the voice crackles over the intercom, and Steve jolts back to the present.  
“Hi?” he says warily. “Steve Rogers, I’m here for the-”  
The gate rattles and clanks and starts to open, and the intercom shuts off with a last whine of feedback.  
Steve frowns as the gate opens wider, revealing a narrow lane winding through a patch of scrubland. He revs the bike and starts down the lane, the rattle of the gates closing behind him lost under the roar of the engine.

In the old photographs he’d found online Camp Lehigh had been a busy training camp, all galvanised steel Quonset huts and soldiers marching in formation. Now there is a single concrete building not much bigger than a hut.  
Steve parks his bike in front of it, before slowly walking up to the door. He tries the handle and finds the door unlocked, so pushes it open and steps inside.  
“There he is!” The man from the intercom shouts out. “Ya running late, kid.”  
He must be pushing a hundred years old, dressed in an old security guard uniform, complete with peaked cap, and sitting behind a tatty little desk in the middle of the room, drinking coffee from a thermos and reading a comic book.  
Steve checks his watch. “Only by five minutes.”  
The man shrugs, then gestures for Steve to come closer. “D’ya see that mark on the floor? Stand right there.”  
Steve looks at the X marked on the floor with two strips of duct tape, the ends peeling up a little, and the man huffs.  
“Quit worryin’, I ain’t gonna drop an anvil on ya head.”  
Steve steps forward, casting his gaze up to the ceiling just in case, and the man smacks a button on the edge of his desk.  
“Watch yer elbows!” the man says with a cackle, and the floor starts to shake.  
“Excuse-” Steve doesn’t get a chance to finish, as the square of flooring he’s standing on suddenly starts to sink down. He has just enough time to take the man’s advice and tuck in his elbows before the platform drops below ground level, the concrete hut nothing more than a vanishing square of light as he plummets into the darkness.

There is a shudder and grinding of gears, and a thin strip of light appears at his feet, rapidly growing brighter until he finds himself deposited in a dimly lit tunnel oddly reminiscent of a subway station. The floor is poured concrete and the white tiled walls curve up to a set of strip lights embedded in the ceiling.   
The platform under his feet shudders, as if in warning, and he quickly steps off, turning to watch it ascend and disappear through a hole in the ceiling.  
Steve peers up the shaft, and gets an eyeful of grit for it, the elevator clunking and clanging as it rises back up to the surface. Steve scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his hands before turning back to the hallway and taking a look around.  
An underground bunker? Some kind of secret lair? To his left the tunnel is blocked off, in the other direction it curves away. Steve hears footsteps approaching, echoing on the tiled walls, and gives the elevator shaft a last glance. There seems to be no way of calling it down again, and he can’t help but wonder how people get out.

“Mr Rogers?”   
A man, stooped a little by time, his features creased and careworn, pulls down his glasses and peers at Steve over the wire frames. He is dressed in a suit, rumpled like his features but well cared for, and the receding hair swept back from his face is several shades lighter than the salt and pepper of his beard.  
He has a stack of reports under his arm, and makes a show of checking them. “Steven Rogers, yes?”  
“Yeah,” Steve holds out his hand, and the man gives it a firm shake.  
“Abraham Erskine,” the man introduces himself. “Thank you for coming.”  
“Thank you for inviting me…” Steve hesitates as Erskine turns and starts walking back the way he had come from. “Where exactly are we?”  
“Bethlehem Steel.” Erskine waits for Steve to fall into step beside him before answering. “Back in 1915 Bethlehem Steel, shipbuilders to the US Navy, established an underground rail network for transporting cannons and shells to Delaware Bay for artillery testing. After the war they fell into disuse, though every so often the weather in Cape May uncovers railroad tracks leading into the sea and…” Erskine waves his hand in the air dismissively. “When we took up operations here in 1947 we reclaimed the accompanying underground station and… restored it. The tunnel is blocked off about half a mile out if you’re entertaining a trip to the coast.” Erskine doesn’t look too happy about that odd little detail. “A lot of sand to dig through.”  
“So the elevator is the only way out?” Steve glances back down the tunnel, but it is out of sight now, the floor sloping down as it turns back on itself.  
“There was an access hatch in the east wing until 1978, but we have road access on the north side, for getting the tank in and out. But now that the west wing has been sealed off, that’s all the exit points, yes.” Erskine shakes his head, his expression clouded. “There are still the ventilation shafts of course, they’ll not block those off. And I doubt he’ll try to swim up through the water mains, not after what happened last time.”  
Steve should ask ‘who?’ He should ask ‘tank?’ as well, but he’s focused on a more pressing concern. “Isn’t that dangerous? What if there’s a fire?”  
Erskine smiles at him, benign and reassuring. “Oh, there’s no need to worry about all that.”

Erskine offers no further reassurances, and soon the tunnel opens up and Steve feels like he can breathe again. They arrive at what might have been a train platform or junction of some kind, a central hub with tunnels snaking off in different directions. There is a man waiting for them, some kind of security guard going by the walkie talkie clipped to his belt and the sidearm discreetly holstered at his hip. He seems amiable enough, with hangdog features and a mug of coffee.  
“Hey fellas.” He salutes with his mug. “This the new fish?”  
Erskine smiles and holds out a hand, indicating to Steve. “Steven Rogers, the candidate we will be interviewing.”  
The man holds out his hand to shake, and Steve takes it. His grip is firm, and there are a few Hello Kitty band aids wrapped around his fingers.  
“Clint Barton,” he introduces himself. “I run security down here, though when you’re out in the field it’ll mostly be Romanov handling things.”  
“Out in the field?” Steve asks, looking to Erskine who just smiles benignly.  
“Yup.” Barton pulls a phone out of his pocket and jabs at it with his thumb. “She’ll be with you in the van in case Bucky gets any ideas, and there’ll be a secondary unit in place by the time you arrive. That’s Rumlow and his crew, I’ll introduce you later.”  
“Bucky?” Steve mutters as Barton holds the phone up.  
“Smile!”  
Steve frowns at the flash of light, and Barton snorts at the picture he gets. “Close enough. I’ll get your ID and clearance sorted.”  
Barton shoves the phone back in his pocket and saunters off.   
Erskine gives Steve a sympathetic smile. “This way, Steven.”

They take a turn down one of the larger tunnels, Erskine humming to himself as they walk. There are doors spaced erratically along the tunnel, all plain steel with no markings, and Erskine makes a pleased sound when they reach one, no different from any other, and pushes it open.  
“This way, Steven. Take a seat.”  
A small office, sparsely furnished; a table, two chairs. And a security camera above the door.  
Erskine closes the door, and catches sight of Steve frowning. He follows his line of sight to the camera and sighs.  
“I must apologise.” Erskine pulls one of the chairs out and puts it by the door. Steve has to fight the urge to stop him, or at least offer assistance, when he climbs carefully onto the chair and gives the camera an apologetic wave before pushing the lens up towards the ceiling. “Coulson. He means well, but his methods are rather…”  
Steve offers Erskine a hand down, rather than watch him break his neck. “You need to be more careful,” Steve says quietly, and Erskine chuckles.  
“Please, Steven.” Erskine gestures to the remaining chair tucked under the desk. “Take a seat.”  
Steve chews on the inside of his cheek. “Your letter asked me to come in for an interview,” he says at last. “What kind of job are we talking about?”  
“One suited to your newly found. Ah. Attributes,” Erskine says. There is no sarcasm in his tone, only genuine curiosity. “I was hoping you could tell me how you came by them.”

Erskine pulls his chair back to the desk and sits down, spreading his stack of files out in a fan before him. He picks through them, bringing a plain manilla envelope to the top of the stack, and even viewed upside down Steve recognises the photo paperclipped to the front.  
A man in his mid twenties, short, scowling, and thin as a rake, with most of his features obscured by the thick, black plastic-framed glasses he wore.  
Steve pulls out the chair and sits, folding his arms across his chest while Erskine pulls a pen out of the top pocket of his jacket and opens up the file.  
“I don’t understand.” Steve frowns. “It’s all in the report. I answered the same questions about a hundred times to a hundred different people, and not one of them believed me.” His tone turns churlish. “I got arrested for identity theft.”  
“Well then, I’m sure once more won’t make a difference,” Erskine says brightly.  
Steve snorts, and rubs his knuckles across his nose. Erskine’s expression softens.  
“Steven, I have read these reports. Several times, I must admit, but I would like to hear what happened in your own words.” He pauses to take the cap off his pen and fit it onto the other end, his movements slow and precise. “Not all communication is spoken, and no amount of words quite matches looking someone in the eye when they tell you their story. Only then can you get the true measure of a man.” He holds his hand out, palm upwards. “Please. From the beginning.”

Steve chews on the inside of his cheek, visibly tamping down on his frustration, and Erskine waits patiently.  
“Alright.” Steve cracks under that benign stare. “You wouldn’t think it to look at me, but less than three months ago I was about five feet and loose change. I weighed 105lb and don’t let anyone tell you I was an ounce under, alright?”  
Erskine chuckles softly. “I will keep that in mind.”  
Steve hesitates before continuing. Erskine wouldn’t believe him, because no one believed him, but what could it hurt to tell the story one more time?  
“I was a nurse working with Medecins Sans Frontieres. The army wouldn’t have me, not looking the way I did, and I guess you could say it runs in the family.”   
“Ah, yes.” Erskine makes a show of looking at the notes. “Your mother was also a nurse.”  
“She was.” Steve pauses, sifting through his words. He’s still not used to referring to her in the past tense. “It was a way I could help, I could make a difference. That’s all I ever wanted to do.” He fidgets in his seat, feeling oddly vulnerable, like some small damp creature that would rather be hidden under a stone, and not put in a too-bright room and poked at. “I was in Baghdad, and there was a building that had collapsed, an unexploded ordnance from-”  
“I’m sorry,” Erskine interrupts. “What was that?”  
Steve sighs, sitting back in his seat. “Shells, bombs, landmines. Explosive devices that for whatever reason don’t go off when they’re supposed to. Instead they go off months or years later, causing chaos and destruction and…”  
Steve pauses, lost in the memory. The relentless press of heat and the choking dust. And hour followed by hour they pulled bodies from the wreckage. The more time passed, the less likely it seemed that they would find anyone still breathing, and Steve had watched the hope die in the eyes of the people around him.  
He wasn’t even supposed to be there, he’d been given orders to get back to base, but something had made him stay. Something, in retrospect, that he couldn’t pin down, and that was what bothered him.  
“I saw something,” he says, almost to himself. “Someone.”

Erskine has made no attempt to make notes while Steve talks, though he keeps a firm hold of his pen. His attention seems to sharpen at Steve’s last remark.  
“You saw someone in the building?”  
“Yeah. I managed to get in to help him.” A twisted, rueful little smile tugs at Steve’s mouth. “One of the advantages of being so damn small. He was beat up pretty bad, I mean not just from having a building fall on him.” Steve taps his shoulder, as if the action could draw focus on the events in his mind. “He had a piece of pipe, from the water supply or something, punched right through his shoulder, pinning him to the ground.”  
“Was it iron,” Erskine asks, his tone sharp enough to jolt Steve from his reverie.  
A strange question, an odd detail to pick out. Steve shrugs. “I don’t know, it was a pipe.”  
Erskine hums, and motions to Steve. “Please, go on.”  
Steve rubs his shoulder absently. “He said it burned. He begged me to pull it out, and I told him that no medic would do such a thing. I tried to stabilise him while I called for help but he… he begged.” Steve falters.  
His eyes. The man’s eyes were burning. Flames licking up his temples, copper and gold.   
“Steven?” Erskine asks softly.  
Steve shakes himself, as if he could brush off the memory, as if he didn’t wake up with the smell of dust and scorched iron and cinder on his breath. “So I pulled out the pipe. I thought he was gonna bleed out there and then but he just… glowed.”  
“Glowed?” Erskine doesn’t look incredulous, doesn’t look at Steve like he’s crazy, just puts the cap on his pen and slips it back into his pocket.  
“Yeah.” Steve swallows, tasting ash. “He said for my actions he would grant me my heart’s desire, and then. I don’t know what happened then. I blacked out, and when I woke up I looked like this.”  
Steve holds out his arms, thickly muscled like his broad shoulders and his long legs. His glasses had been smashed when he passed out, but he could see fine without them. The asthma, the heart problems, all of it sloughed off like a snake shedding its skin.   
Maybe a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis would be a better analogy, but Steve wouldn’t stand for it. He may have been small and dull and weak before, but he was no damn caterpillar, he was a perfectly good butterfly, thank you kindly.

When Steve has been silent for too long, Erskine clears his throat. “Your heart’s desire?”  
“That’s what he said.” Steve shrugs, a slight tilt of one shoulder.   
“Understandable,” Erskine pulls the files together, picking them up and straightening them out before tapping them on the desk. “A little fellow like yourself, wanting to be big and strong-”  
“That’s not it at all,” Steve snaps, sitting forward. He catches himself, a little too late, and slumps back in his seat. “I was fine the way I was.”  
“Really?” Erskine asks, looking amused. “You were fine with the scoliosis and the high blood pressure and-”  
“Yes!” Steve glares, but Erskine seems to take no offense. Steve’s hackles drop a little, and he shuffles in his seat. “Okay, I know I was kind of on the small side, but I just wanted people to give me a chance, let me prove myself.” He folds his arms across his chest, though he knows he should stop moving so goddamn much. “I didn’t ask for this! None of my colleagues recognised me, even though I was wearing the same goddamn clothes, all split at the seams.”  
He had been a sight walking back to base, his pants shredded and his shirt in tatters. Hell, even his shoes didn’t fit no more. He still had his ID, and waved it anyone who’d give him half a chance. And yeah, his hair was still blond and his eyes were still blue, but there the similarities ended.  
“I got sent back to the US and thrown in a damn psych ward. They thought I was delusional, or the real Steve Rogers was dead in a ditch somewhere and I was trying to scam my way into his life.” Steve crumples a little. “My life.”  
Erskine makes a soft noise of sympathy, and Steve swipes the side of his thumb across his nose. He is fine, damnit. Whatever happened can’t be undone, and he is fine.  
“I managed to talk the doctors into doing a DNA test. I mean if it turned out it was all in my head, at least I’d know, right?”   
He still remembers the look on the doctors face when they got the results, how quickly he had gone from smug and condescending to ashen and stammering. And everything went a little crazy after that. The test had to be repeated, of course it did, and then the scramble for blood samples and further testing. All the while Steve fought to get his mental health cleared and his ass discharged, before someone stopped asking what? and started asking how do we repeat it?  
But no one would listen, and he’d come so damn close to being someone’s lab rat. Until one day a quiet, soft-spoken man had shown up at the psych ward, claiming to be his family doctor.  
“And that’s how I met Dr Banner.”

Erskine sits back, and gives Steve a searching look.  
“I’m sure you know the rest,” Steve says quietly.   
Erskine nods, pushing back the chair and getting to his feet.  
“Is… is that it?” Steve asks as Erskine tucks Steve’s files under his arm and walks towards the door. “Thanks but no thanks? Do I see myself out?”  
Erskine smiles warmly, and pulls open the door. “Come with me, I’ll give you the tour.”  
Steve stares at him for a moment. “Does that mean I’m hired?”  
Erskine strides out into the tunnel, and Steve rushes to catch up with him. For an old guy, he’s sprightly.  
“What do you know about the SSR?” Erskine asks, leading the way back the the central hub.  
“Not much,” Steve admits. “Formed in ‘47, and some kind of private scientific enterprise?”  
“In 1934 Johann Schmidt, A Nazi officer and student the occult, formed his own branch of the SS - Hydra. He was obsessed, believed that he could open a gateway to the Nine Realms and amass an army to defeat the Allies.” Erskine’s mouth twists. “No doubt after that he would have set his sights on the Third Reich, and on and on until the world was his.”  
“That…” Steve hesitates. “That sounds a little far-fetched.”  
“In 1943 President Roosevelt, concerned by the rise of Hydra and their dabblings in the occult, decides on a countermeasure, and the Strategic Scientific Reserve is born. After the death of Hitler in 1958-”   
“Hitler died in ‘45,” Steve clips out, and Erskine gives him an indulgent smile.  
“He did. The first time.”  
“Wait, what?”  
“In the early days it was just a handful of us, and Bucky of course.” Erskine takes a right and crosses the hub, leading Steve to a larger tunnel. “Hydra was just the first of many power hungry despots seeking to wield power over their fellow man.” Erskine shrugs. “Some things never change, it seems.”

The tunnel leads to another wide chamber, although this one has a few more home comforts. The walls on one side are lined with shelves of books, and the other side is taken up with a tremendous aquarium.   
Steve falters, suddenly deaf to Erskine’s talk of ancient spears and stolen relics, and he walks over to stare into the murky green waters of the tank. The tank is set into the bedrock itself, the edges decorated with deep green tiles and high arches in an Art Deco style.  
It is beautiful to behold, and he can make out long ropes of kelp twisting up from the sandy floor, and the odd flurry of bubbles from some oxygenation system, but it is the size of it that draws him closer.   
“Hey, Stevie!”  
Steve spins around, but there is no one one in the room but himself and Erskine, who is watching him with amusement. Steve resists the urge to stick his finger in his ear and wiggle it about, he could swear the voice came from inside his head.  
“Did you hear that?” he asks Erskine.  
Something thumps against the glass. “C’mon, Stevie, turn around! Let me get a look at you.”  
There is something in the tank, and Steve swallows down the lump in his throat before turning to face it.  
“Son of a-”

“Dude, calm down, I ain’t gonna eat you or lay eggs in your brain or any of that weird shit. Y’understand what I’m saying? Take a breath, that’s right nice and slow, I’m gonna count to five and then we gonna let out that breath, all calm and easy, right pal?”  
Steve’s lungs may be in perfect working order, but he remembers what it felt like to have an asthma attack. The way his lungs seized up and his throat closed, and the pressure on his chest that felt like his ribs would cave in at any moment.  
There is a creature in the tank. A creature with arms and legs, with head and chest, but after that any resemblance to a human is negligible. Steve blinks rapidly, fixating on little details that jigsaw together instead of the impossible whole. Webbed fingers pressed against the glass. Lidless black eyes that are iridescent where they catch the light. A necklace made of a thin slice of conch shell against his bare chest. Nasal slits and a wide smile like a gaping wound. Where ears should be there are strange fronds that ripple with the movement of the water, pale pink where the rest of him is burnished gold.  
It has a tail.  
It has a tail, and a single long fin that stretches the length of it’s spine, ending at the tip of its thick, muscular tail.  
“It’s alright, pal. I mean I get it, I really do, first time Clint saw me he damn near shit himself. Though don’t tell him I said that, alright?”  
Steve coughs out a laugh, because what else can he do? Erskine hasn’t come any closer, or offered reassurance, just watches how Steve reacts. Steve wonders if all that business in the office had been a front, and this is his interview.  
Steve raises a hand, his fingers trembling a little, but not too badly. “Hi. I’m Steve Rogers.”

The creature in the tank beams at him. “Born fourth of July in Brooklyn, New York, to Sarah and Joe Rogers, both… aww shit man, sorry to hear that. Got in a tangle with a Djinn, and you think you ain’t coping, but trust me buddy, you doin’ great.”  
“A what?” Steve draws his hand to his chest, protective.  
“Don’t be all coy with me Stevie, you know exactly what happened.” It wags a webbed finger at him. “If you ask Abe, he’s got some books you oughta read. The more you know an’ all that.”  
Steve’s hand twitches as he lowers it. “You’re psychic?”  
“I just get a sense for certain things.” The creature swims around the tank a little, it’s powerful tail flicking back and forth.   
“Luis is something of a unique case,” Erskine finally chimes in as Luis disappears into the murky depths of the tank. “In the early ‘70’s Lake Chalco was drained to prevent flooding in Mexico City.”  
“And you found him,” Steve finishes. He’s starting to get an inkling about the SSR, and why Erskine invited him.  
“By then I had retired from field work,” Erskine looks at the tank fondly. “I think Bucky was glad of the company. Come on, you made it this far, you may as well see the rest, yes?”  
There’s that name again. Bucky.   
Erskine waves at Steve to follow him down a side tunnel. “Come, the twins will want to meet you first.”  
Steve pauses, returning his gaze to the tank. Whatever else is in these tunnels, it can’t be stranger than this.

There must be miles of catacombs under New Jersey, Steve thinks as he’s led deeper into the maze. There are security cameras spaced along the ceiling, and guard stations currently unmanned. Erskine points out places of interest as they walk, bookstacks devoted to different branches of the occult and paranormal, dimly lit rooms filled with artifacts and reliquaries. It seems almost incongruous when a pokey little kitchen is the next port of call. Kitchen might be generous; a row of cabinets, most of which have post it notes of various colours on them, a fridge, and a counter with a kettle and microwave, any remaining space littered with tea and coffee making supplies. There is a table and chairs pushed up in one corner, yesterday's newspaper left open at the sudoku.  
“There’s a canteen on the upper level, of course.” Erskine fetches a mug from a cupboard and fills it from a coffeepot on the counter. He waves the carafe of coffee at Steve in offering. “But this is the kitchen the team uses, so I’d encourage you to spend at least some time here. Coffee?”  
“Please,” Steve responds, and Erskine fetches another mug and fills it before handing it over. There is a cartoon of the Loch Ness Monster on its side.   
“I believe there might be a room available in the upper level, but I would prefer it if you stationed down here as well.” Erskine pasues to sip his coffee. “The twins are more likely to accept you if they consider you one of their own.”  
Steve nods, he’s had his share of live-in jobs, and there’s no way he can commute out here every day. “Am I supposed to make myself available at all times?”  
“I would appreciate that, yes.” Erskine gestures for Steve to vacate the room. “Of course you can schedule away time with Clint or Natasha, you’re not being kept prisoner.”  
It’s an oddly emphasised statement, and one Steve’s gut tells him to avoid as Erskine pushes open a door further down the tunnel.

Steve had expected another library, maybe a study, he didn’t expect a rec room.  
The room is long, the wall a sloping curve to the rounded ceiling, with a couple of squashy looking sofas at one end arranged around a flatscreen TV on the wall. At the other end is a ping-pong table, where a young man with a wild tangle of grey hair plays a game. Against himself.  
Steve stares, his lips parted in a silent ‘oh’, as the kid strikes the ball with his bat, and then moves from one end of the table to the other in a blur, the air shimmering around him. He pauses long enough to raise the bat in greeting to Erskine before giving the ball a light tap and speeding back to the other side.  
He moves too fast for Steve to track, only catching glimpses of him when he slows down or changes direction, and Steve gives the coffee in his hand a doubtful look. At least he would if he was still holding it, the next time the kid comes back into focus he’s slurping gleefully at the dregs, giving Steve a sly grin.  
“Cute,” Steve mutters.  
“Stop showing off, Pietro.”  
Steve turns to the speaker, a girl sat on one of the sofas, her nose practically pressed to her phone. She looks enough like the other kid to be a sibling but for her hair, long and dark brown, stained red at the tips.  
“Steven, this is Wanda and Pietro Maximoff.” Erskine indicates to the pair. “Part of the crew.”  
Wanda gives Steve an impassive look. “Has he met Red yet?”   
It’s clear that her question is meant for Erskine, and he ducks his head. “One thing at a time.”  
“What about Luis?” Pietro pauses in his game long enough to ask. He points his bat to Steve. “You met our Fishbro, right?”  
Steve nods. “I’ve met Luis, yes.”

When Steve offers no further opinion on Luis, Pietro loses interest and returns to his game. Wanda, despite her gaze being on her phone, the shrill little bleeps indicating that she’s on some kind of game, doesn’t. Steve can almost feel the laser focus of her attention on him, and he carefully doesn’t acknowledge it, turning his attention back to Erskine.  
“So,” Steve tries to joke. “Another Djinn?”  
Erskine shakes his head. “Faeries.”  
He doesn’t laugh, and although Steve has barely known him an hour, he doesn’t seem the kind of person who would be flippant about such things.   
If there are Djinn in the world, if there is at least one Luis in the world, why not this too?  
“Steven?” Erskine says quietly when Steve doesn’t respond.  
“My mother was Irish,” Steve says quickly. “She used to tell me stories, and I’m wondering how true they were.”  
“That the Fae are vicious and vain?” Wanda cuts in. “That they are arrogant and cunning and you must call them ‘kindly’, or ‘fair’, or they might take an interest in you.”  
“Yes,” Steve replies. He thinks of the saucers of milk she left by the door, the iron keys and the scattered salt.  
“All true.” Wanda’s attention returns to her game, dismissing Steve completely.  
“Well then,” Erskine claps his hands together. “On we go, yes?”  
Steve lets himself be herded to the door, but catches Wanda’s last words as they leave.  
“I like this one.” Her phone pings and bleeps. “He can stay.”  
“Faeries,” Steve mutters to himself as Erskine closes the door to the Rec Room.  
“Faeries,” Erskine agrees. “Trolls, Djinn, Mermaids. Mer _men_. Make no mistake, Steven. There are things that go bump in the night.” His expression shifts from kindly to something sharper. “And we are the things that bump back.”

Clint is waiting for them outside the rec room. He holds up a security pass for Steve. “Here’s your card. Try not to lose it, or Hill will try an’ get your barcode tattooed on your ass.”  
Steve takes the card, and tries not to look too closely at the picture. “I’ll keep that in mind.”  
Erskine gives Steve a pat on the shoulder. “Good luck,” he murmurs, before starting off down the tunnel back the way they came.  
“Wait, you’re leaving?” Steve asks, taking a step after him.  
“Woah there, big guy.” Clint puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and he could shrug it away easily, but instead watches as Erskine disappears from sight.   
“They’re not talking,” Clint explains, not that it’s much of an explanation. “You met Luis, right?”  
“Yeah,” Steve purses his lips, tucking his card into his pocket.  
“And you’re still standing!” Clint gives his shoulder a shake. “Who knows, maybe you’ll actually stick.”  
He starts off down the tunnel, taking them to a locked steel door and motioning for Steve to use his pass on the access panel. When Steve swipes the pass over the screen a little red light in the corner turns green, and the door clicks, unlocking.  
“So, there’s a high turnover here?” Steve asks carefully.  
“Not so much.” Clint pushes the door open. “It’s just Bucky can be a handful. The Professor keeps him in check most of the time but with the last breakout, Coulson felt we needed extra help.” Clint leads him down a darkened hallway lined with shelves and cabinets. “The Professor had no shortage of candidates to choose from, ex-Military, FBI, MI6, but the Doc brought in your file and he was sold. Go figure.”

Steve peers at the contents of the shelves as they pass. They are not the neat, ordered bookcases and reliquaries of Erskine’s tour, but something much more haphazard. Jars of dried herbs and sliced roots jostle up to boxes of shotgun shells and spools of copper wire. Bottles of oils, their labels slick and peeling, sit next to stacks of candles and discarded candy wrappers.   
“What exactly is it I’m here for?” Steve finally asks.  
“Nanny, keeper, best friend?” Clint shrugs. “Whatever. Just make sure he doesn’t leave the base unsupervised.” Without breaking his stride, Clint picks up a comic book from one of the shelves and hands it over.  
 _Hellboy_.  
Steve remembers the comics, he even read a few of them when he was a kid; the red skinned demon with a left arm of pure silver. The character had started out as a demonic boy sidekick in the Howling Commandos comics, fighting Nazis in weekly installments. Sometime in the late ‘80’s he’d been given his own line of comics. The new Hellboy was older, grouchier, and a trenchcoat wearing detective. A silver-limbed Columbo with horns and dialogue peppered with lines of asterix.   
“You’re a nurse, right?” Clint searches through his pockets until he comes up with his own security pass and swipes it through the lock of another reenforced steel door. “That should come in handy. I mean the Doc does most of that stuff, but it can’t hurt to have someone out on the field.”  
Steve hums, not quite listening, and lets out a little sound of surprise as a cat comes streaking through the opening door.  
“Woah, not so fast!” Clint yelps, and chases after the cat as it pelts down the hallway.  
There is a soft huff of laughter from within the room, rough and warm, and Steve looks up.  
 _Oh_.

Steve blinks once. Twice. Then looks down at the comic in his hand, the large red demon on the cover, the horns on his head worn down to stubs.  
The… figure standing before him, a large ginger cat sprawled across his shoulders, doesn’t look exactly the same. Some things the artist got right; the segmented silver plates of his left arm, the long, warm brown hair that curls down to brush his shoulders, the colour of his skin. But his horns are placed a little higher up on his forehead, and his tail isn’t forked at the tip.   
“I hate those comics.” Bucky, because this must be Bucky, scratches his cat under the chin. “They never get the eyes right.”  
Steve looks down at the comic again. In the cartoon Hellboy’s eyes are dull orange, half hidden by a wide, almost simian brow. Steve doesn’t need to look up again to take in Bucky’s deep blue eyes, or the breadth of his shoulders under his tight black t-shirt. The image has already been seared into his thoughts, and he doubts he’ll be able to close his eyes without seeing an afterimage painted in Rose Madder and Cadmium.

Clint shoulders past Steve, errant cat tucked under his arm, and walks into the room.  
“Hey Red,” he says, dropping the cat on a bed that takes up a third of the available space. It’s far larger than any bed Steve has seen before, made from a pair of king sized mattresses laid on the flatbed of a pickup truck. There’s a cat sleeping in one of the wheel arches.   
In fact, there are cats everywhere; sprawled across the bed among the blankets and books, stretched out on the bookcases that line the walls, watching a TV show about coral reefs on a large flatscreen TV, lying across the open books on a large work table across the room.   
“Clint,” Bucky nods to Steve. “This the new guy?”  
Clint shrugs, and Sarah Rogers would spin in her grave to see such bad manners, so Steve steps forward, holding out his hand. “Steve Rogers.”  
Bucky gives Steve a dubious look, as though waiting for the punchline of a bad joke. When nothing comes, he grabs Steve’s hand and gives it a single, firm shake.  
His skin is warm, but not unpleasantly so, and there is a faint trace of burnt matches and barley malt lingering on Steve’s fingers when he lets go.  
A light over the door flashes red, and an unfamiliar voice crackles over Clint’s walkie talkie.  
“Aw crap,” he mutters, and goes out to the door to answer.  
“What’s that?” Steve asks as Bucky dislodges the cat from his shoulders and grabs a holster from his desk, along with what looks like a massive revolver. “What’s happening?”  
Bucky grins, displaying even, white teeth. “Showtime.”


	3. Some Kind of Pugilist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, Red!” Luis holds up a fist to be bumped. “You meet Steve yet?”  
> Bucky rumbles an assent, and gives his webbed fist a light tap with a broad red knuckle.  
> “I like him,” Luis declares, and Bucky snorts. Luis’ mouth stretches wider. “ _You_ like him.”  
>  “Shut up.”

An assignment, thank fuck for that, he was bored out of his mind.  
Bucky twitches his shoulders, and Gabriel takes the hint, jumping down and landing lightly on the floor with a soft _prrnk_. Bucky steps over him on the way to his desk, grabbing his holster and belting it on. He picks up the Samaritan and cracks open the chamber, checking that it’s loaded before snapping it back into place.  
The nurse, what was his name? Roger? Steve? Lets out a low sound at the revolver, and Bucky grins, spinning the Samaritan around on his finger before slamming it into the holster.  
“What’s happening?” The guy looks around, and Bucky notes that he doesn’t look scared. He’s asking for input, not out of fear.  
_Interesting_.  
Bucky grabs his overcoat from the back of a chair and pulls it on, and maybe there’s a little swagger there, a little bit of showing off. “Showtime.”  
Whatever his name is, he has a cute ass, and Bucky gives it a light thwack with the tip of his tail. He lets out a scandalised yelp, and Bucky’s mouth ticks up. “Sorry, it’s got a mind of its own.”  
He doesn’t look impressed, and goes over to Clint, keeping Bucky and his tail in his peripheral vision.  
It’s been a long time since someone looked Bucky in the eye for the first time without panicking, and even longer since they shook his hand. It’s enough to make a guy feel-  
“Alright, we’re moving out,” Clint says. “Some kind of Brownie infestation - not the good kind - in a New York bakery.” He gives the new guy an apologetic look. “Gonna have to cut the tour short, Steve. You can handle yourself in a fight, though, right? I mean you’ve been arrested for public brawling how many-”  
“I was sticking up for-” Steve catches himself, and takes a breath. “Yes, I can handle myself.”

Bucky listens to the exchange on the way back to his desk, and picks through the projects laid out there. He settles on a chain with a silver disc dangling from it, a branching sigil carefully inscribed within a ring of Elder Futhark runes. With his blond hair and blue eyes, there should be enough Norse blood in the guy for the talisman to bind with.  
“Hey,” Bucky calls, and tosses the talisman to Steve.  
Steve snatches it out of the air, and gives it a doubtful look. “What is this, some sort of witchcraft?”  
“Yup.” Bucky gives him a wide, teeth-filled grin. “That a problem?”  
Steve shakes his head, and loops the chain around his neck. Gold would suit him better, something to match the warmth of his skin and the colour of his hair. Bucky shakes away the thought. Nope. No. Not going down that road.  
Steve throws another look his way and Clint elbows him. “Don’t stare, he don’t like it.”  
Steve turns away, not before Bucky spies him gesturing to his forehead.  
“Oh yeah.” Clint rummages around in his pockets for his security pass. “Horns. He cuts them short to keep from scarin’ folks.”  
“Doesn’t that hurt?” Steve uses his own pass to unlock the door, giving Bucky another sideways look as he picks up a few things from around the room. A tub of salt, a vial of holy water, a stick of bloodied chalk, they all get tucked away in pockets and pouches.  
“Nah, it’s like cutting your nails or something,” Clint shrugs.  
“Are we moving out or what?” Bucky asks loudly, and the pair of them flinch. Serves them right, gossiping like old women.

Clint takes the lead along the hallway, Steve at the rear, keeping Bucky hemmed in.  
He’s long since past taking offense at the chaperoning, but could live without Steve surreptitiously checking his feet to see if he has hooves. Bucky flicks his tail out, catching Steve in the gut when he’s not looking.  
“Ow!” Steve bats the tail away and Bucky cackles, delighted.  
Clint guides them through the tunnels, only hesitating once or twice until Bucky points out where he’s supposed to be going.  
“I’ll be handing you over to Nat,” Clint explains as they walk up another tunnel. “She’s in charge of mobile unit security.”  
They come to a locked door, and Clint runs his pass over the lock. The door clicks open, and on the other side is a red haired woman, armed with a handgun and walkie talkie much like Clint’s.  
“Hey Barton,” she grins. “This the new liason?”  
“Steve Rogers.” Steve holds out his hand like a damned boy scout, and Nat gives it a quick shake before letting them both through.  
“Stay safe,” Clint calls after them, and Nat gives him a nod before pushing the door shut. The lock clicks and she leads them down to a truck with Carter Logistics printed on the side.  
“What the…” Steve murmurs.  
Bucky pushes ahead, opening the doors at the back and climbing in. Luis is already inside, sitting on one of the two benches that line the inside of the van. He must have just arrived, as he’s still fussing with his cap - a plain black affair filled with oxygenated water that sits over his branchial gills. He’s naked but for a pair of boardshorts decorated with dancing dogs, his conch shell necklace a dark spiral against the gold of his chest.  
Bucky sits down heavily across from him, and makes himself comfortable while the two outside the van gasbag. New guy is probably freaking out over the old Cromwell tank gathering dust in the yard.  
“Hey, Red!” Luis holds up a fist to be bumped. “You meet Steve yet?”  
Bucky rumbles an assent, and gives his webbed fist a light tap with a broad red knuckle.  
“I like him,” Luis declares, and Bucky snorts. Luis’ mouth stretches wider. “ _You_ like him.”  
“Shut up.”

“So did Barton fill you in?” Nat asks, climbing into the van and taking a seat next to Luis.  
“Not really,” Steve admits. There’s a space left next to Natasha, but he chooses the space opposite her, right beside Bucky.  
Natasha doesn't look surprised at Steve’s admission, and slaps the roof of the van. The driver up front keys the ignition, and they start moving. “Alright, from the beginning. So you don’t need to be told that there are monsters-”  
“Not monsters,” Luis chips in. “C’mon Nat, we talked about this.”  
“Supernatural forces,” Natasha clarifies without missing a beat. “For the most part they keep to themselves, coexisting alongside humanity. But sometimes they cause trouble-”  
Bucky sits forward. “Because some idiot has dumped a shopping mall on their sacred land, or a bunch of kids decide to try out some black magic, or an archaeology student gets a little excited over translating an ancient Sumerian tablet-”  
Natasha kicks Bucky’s knee, scuffing the leather of his pants. “ _Whatever_ the reason,” she glowers at him. “The public can’t be made aware of their existence, so it’s up to us to keep things on the down-low.”  
Bucky blows air between his lips, loud and obnoxious.  
Steve frowns nodding his head to Bucky and Luis. “Even you guys?”  
Bucky shrugs. “You didn’t know I was real until an hour ago.”  
“More like ten minutes,” Steve’s mouth crooks up.  
“The point being,” Nat says firmly. “If people find out it’s real there’ll be chaos. First it’s the faeries, and we don’t need to be messing with them. Then people start asking questions, serious questions; if there are demons, what about angels? What about _God_?”  
Steve blanches, but doesn’t back down. “But they have a right-”  
“I’m not in charge,” Nat huffs, sitting back and crossing her arms, effectively ending the discussion. “I’m just doing my job here.”

Steve’s mouth sets into a hard line, and Bucky resists the urge to goad him a little, see how many buttons he can push. Luis, empathic pain in the ass, picks up on it and intervenes.  
“Brownies, huh?” he asks Nat. “What sort are we looking at here?”  
“What sort are there?” Steve asks, and Bucky can feel the psychic wave of smugness from Luis for getting him engaged.  
“I ain’t so down on the European guys, you gotta ask Bucko there,” Luis points to Bucky rather unnecessarily. “You need the skinny on Kukulcan or Ixtab, you hit Luis up. And run away, like, as fast as you can. Those dudes are hardcore, you know what I’m sayin’?”  
Steve stares at Luis for a minute, trying to parse the tumble of words that have barrelled through his skull.  
“...Right,” Natasha says slowly. “Moving on.”  
“They could be Gruagach?” Bucky offers. “Ùruisg? Hob’s can cause a ruckus.”  
Nat shrugs, and Bucky unholsters the Samaritan. “Either way, we’re talking little guys. Guess I won’t be needing this then.” Steve makes that little sound again, and Bucky smirks, holding the gun out for him to take a closer look. “This here is the Good Samaritan.”  
Bucky cracks open the chamber, his silver fingers tapping against the metal with a sound like windchimes, and pulls out a bullet. It’s twice the size of a shotgun shell, made of glass and filled with clear liquid. He gives the shell a little shake, and a cloud of silver flakes rise up in a flurry, like a deadly snow globe. Steve holds out his hand, and Bucky surprises himself by handing the shell over.  
It’s hard not to drink in Steve’s expression, curious and open, and maybe Bucky preens a little.  
“Made ‘em myself. Silver shavings, white oak and seawater.”  
Steve hands it back, and Bucky slots it into place in the chamber before snapping it shut.

“So does this happen a lot,” Steve asks him. Not Nat or even Luis. Him. “You get sent out to deal with… things?”  
Bucky leans back, sliding the Samaritan back in its holster. “Pretty much. Dad sends out whoever he thinks is up for the job. I mean if you’re dealing with a nest of Rusalka in New York’s sewers, then that’d be more Luis’ line of work.”  
“Yeah, lucky me,” Luis mutters. “Those dames don’t play nice.”  
“And the twins are pretty good with dealing with skirmishes. You’ve seen how fast Pietro is.”  
“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “And Wanda? Aren’t you worried about their safety?”  
“Little Red?” Bucky grins, all teeth. “It ain’t her you need to worry about.” Bucky elbows Steve in the ribs, maybe a little harder than necessary, his arm is solid silver after all, but the guy doesn’t even flinch. “So what’s this about you bein’ some kind of pugilist?”  
Steve flushes. It’s a good look on him. “I’m not-”  
“October 17th 2008,” Luis interrupts with a wide smile. “Arrested for assaulting a protester outside a Planned Parenthood clinic.”  
“Hey,” Steve’s hackles rise. “He was harassing people in need of medical attention!”  
“October 21st, 23rd, ooh, twice on the 26th,” Luis cackles. “You don’t know when to quit!”  
Steve catches himself before he starts arguing, and gives Luis a wounded look. “You memorised my file?”  
“Nah buddy, you did!” Luis taps a webbed finger to his temple, just under a brachial gill. “It’s all in there, clear as can be.”  
Steve scrubs at his brow, as if he could ward off further intrusion. “Yeah, well keep out of there please.”  
Bucky sits back in his seat, pressing his back to the thin wall of the van. He’s long since learned how to tune out Luis' psychic chatter, and doesn’t need to hear the apologies and reassurances Luis is sending Steve’s way.  
He can feel the thrum of the engine transferred through steel and aluminium, the wheels turning on concrete sending a thrum through his silver arm as they drive north towards New York. Most of the assignments of late have been at night, and although the city doesn’t sleep, he misses the sounds of daytime. Maybe Steve will go a little easy on him, let him take a walk around in the park, feel grass under his feet and sun on his back.  
Bucky glances over at Steve, who has struck up a conversation with Nat.  
_Yeah right_. He’ll be just like the others.  
Bucky closes his eyes, and pretends to doze, ignoring the occasional nudge from Luis, and the feel of Steve’s gaze flickering towards him and darting away again.

He doesn’t open his eyes until they’re on site, and Nat gives his knee another tap. “We’re here. Stay put while I check things on the ground.” She glowers at him. “You go running off and I will staple you to the floor. By your ears.”  
Bucky gives her a lazy grin. “Why so tense, Natalia?”  
She makes a low scoffing sound, and climbs out the van, slamming the door shut behind her.  
Steve watches the proceedings with interest, and Bucky watches him surreptitiously in turn.  
“ _You want me to ask if he’s single?_ ” Luis’ voice scratches through his thoughts, irritating and unwelcome as a splinter.  
“Shut up,” Bucky mutters, and Steve starts a little before fixing him with a glare. Whoops.  
Bucky points an accusatory finger at Luis. “Fishbro here is Clairsentient telepath, meaning he can poke about in your thoughts, put a few intrusive comments in there-”  
“Helpful comments,” Luis cuts in.  
“ _Intrusive_ comments,” Bucky repeats. “Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, he hears all the background chatter of wherever he is. Needs to touch something to get a clear reading, but for the most part it’s a one way system. Unless you’re also some kind of telepath, the only talking back you can do is with ya pie-hole.”  
Steve takes another look at Luis, who waves a webbed hand at him. “Damn straight, pal.”  
“Comes in handy when your comms are out,” Bucky gives Luis a fond grin. “An’ probably goes some ways to explaining his hyperverbal bullcrap.”  
“You know I love you, Red.” Luis winks at him.  
Before Bucky can respond there is a tap on the side of the van, and Nat leans over to open the door.  
“Hey, they’re playing our song.”

Nat has her walkie talkie out and to her mouth as Bucky climbs out the van and takes a look around. They’re parked on a basketball court on the edge of a park, right up against the back entrance to a run of buildings, the beleaguered bakery on the end. The support teams are already in place, holding a perimeter and keeping anyone from getting near the van or the building.  
“We’re coming in,” Nat mutters into her walkie talkie. “Repeat. Red and the Fish are coming in.”  
So much for sightseeing. Bucky doesn’t wait for Steve to catch up, just follows Nat to the building. There’s a guard by the door, who gives Bucky and Luis a nod before his gaze rests on Steve.  
“What’s all this?”  
“New guy,” Bucky jabs a thumb in Steve’s direction. “What we got?”  
The guard holds out a hand to Steve. “Brock Rumlow, I run the Strike team, the advance unit of the SSR. We clear the area, manage crowd control, clean up when the job is done, that kind of thing.” He glances at Bucky. Fuckin’ creep. “Keep an eye on this one.”  
“Will do,” Steve’s tone gives nothing away. “What’s the situation?”  
Rumlow points behind him. “Staff arrived at 5am and found signs of a disturbance-”  
The guy doesn’t get a chance to finish, as Bucky shoves past him and into the bakery itself.  
“Holy _shit!_ ” Bucky gasps, stomping past the rows of tall, stainless steel chillers and industrial sized ovens, coming to a halt in an open plan kitchen.  
There are signs of disturbance everywhere, dents in the cabinet doors and clumps of laminated pastry on the floor. One of the stylish copper lampshades hanging overhead is crooked, the bulb fizzing and dimming.  
Just beyond the brushed steel kitchen is the cafe itself, the windows covered by the support team to keep anyone from looking in. Chairs have been overturned and menus scattered, though there is no sign of Brownies or any other creatures wandering about.

Steve may be big but he’s light on his feet, and quickly catches up to Bucky, glancing around the kitchen while Bucky lays his hands reverentially on a worktop.  
“Oooh, nice!” Luis says appreciatively, ambling into the kitchen after him. Nat brings up the rear, a taser in one hand, and starts to check the corners and under the counters for hiding creatures.  
“Nice?” Bucky hisses. “Nice? This isn’t nice, this is sacred ground.”  
“What?” Nat looks up from where she’s crouched under a counter and frowns. “Is that what’s causing all the trouble, it’s on a burial ground?”  
Bucky snorts derisively. “Are you kidding me?” He goes back over to the row of chillers. “This is the Dominique Ansel Bakery, Nat!”  
She gives him a blank look, rising to her feet with lithe grace, and Bucky throws up his arms. “The Cronut!”  
She raises an eyebrow and Bucky dismisses her, cracking open the chiller door and taking a peek inside. His silver finger tap against the stainless steel, ringing loudly in the air.  
“Bucky,” Steve says firmly. “This is someone’s business, you can’t go poking around.”  
Bucky pokes his head out, a blob of creme patisserie on his chin, and Steve forces the door shut.  
“Hey!” Bucky yelps.  
“No testing the merchandise!” Steve scolds him, and Bucky slopes off to look around. Steve keeps on his tail, quite literally, giving it a tap whenever it wraps around a package of chocolate chips left on the counter or starts working on the lid of a promising looking tub. Bucky hisses like a cat every time it happens, but Steve keeps at it. Asshole.

After finishing her sweep Nat gives the all clear on the kitchen and moves out to the cafe. Luis trails after her, no doubt soaking up the psychic traces of a busy cafe, catching threads of conversation and sensation and revelling in them.  
Bucky, despite Steve’s brow creasing into a disappointed frown, doesn’t spend much time looking for Brownies, or at least not the supernatural kind. Instead he casts his gaze over the empty display counter and the menus, and letting out a low whine.  
“What now?” Steve huffs.  
“Look at this!” Bucky waves a menu under his nose. “Chocolate chip cookie shots! They fill ‘em with vanilla milk.”  
Steve pushes the menu aside. “Aren’t we supposed to be working?”  
“They wouldn’t miss one,” Bucky’s tone turns wheedling. “Just one.”  
“Focus, Red,” Nat calls from across the room where Luis is pressing his hand to the floor, trying to get a reading of the interlopers.  
Outnumbered, Bucky puts the menu down. “I ain’t never had one is all,” he mumbles, skulking across to the far side of the cafe.

Bucky could swear that Steve must be a little bit psychic from the waves of displeasure rolling out from him. It’s like being caught in a rising tide, the constant wash of his furrowed brow and pouting lips.  
Bucky tips his head from side to side, trying to loosen the tension building in his shoulders, and glances up at the ceiling.  
_Oh_.  
Huddled against the AC units and strips of spotlights are small, humanlike creatures, dressed in red jackets and caps.  
“Huh.” Bucky scratches his chin. “Well they ain’t Brownies.”  
“What was that?” Nat follows Bucky’s gaze, and quickly raises her taser. “What the hell are they?”  
“Woah woah!” Luis holds up both hands, trying to put himself between Nat and the creatures. “They ain’t causing a ruckus, Nat. No need to, like, escalate the situation.”  
She twitches her head, motioning to the creatures. “What d’you say, Red? Are they friendly?”  
“They’re scared,” Luis answers for him. “Can’t you smell it on them? Nothing they’ve done here has been aggressive, they ain’t torn up the floor or attacked nobody, they just scared.”  
Nat finally lowers the taser, and Luis gestures to Bucky. “I ain’t getting much from them aside from panic, you got any ideas?”  
Bucky chews on the question, thinking out loud. “They ain’t Hobs, that’s for sure. Not Pictsies neither, even with the red caps. Maybe Trolls?”  
“I thought Trolls were supposed to be big?” Nat mutters. “Didn’t you fight a-”  
“Could be a Vættir?” Bucky interrupts. Steve doesn’t need to hear that story. He whistles up at the creatures. “Hey! Kveðja? Kvaddi? Uh…” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. He has this, fuck’s sake. The creatures are looking at him curiously, so he tries again. “Uh, it’s okay, it’s eivi... heill?”  
Bucky glances at Luis. “You think they got any of that?”  
“I think you just told them they’re pregnant.”  
“Aw shit.”

One of the creatures starts a brief conversation with the others, nodding their heads and grabbing their caps to keep them from falling. A consensus met, it scoots over to one of the copper hanging lampshades, and carefully climbs down. It looks like a short, round pole dancer as it swivels and twists, moving hand over hand until it reaches the wide brim of the lamp.  
It clears its throat, adjusts the lapels of its waistcoat, and addresses Bucky directly. “Kveðja, roðinn.”  
It’s voice is surprisingly low, and slightly nasal, as if speaking through a head cold.  
“Huh,” Bucky leans in to the creature. “I’ve been called worse. Segja frá… uh… why are you here?”  
“Mikill harmr er at oss kveðinn,” the creature moans, and launches into a barrage of words that Bucky can hardly keep pace with.  
“What’s it saying?” Nat asks when the creature finally runs out of things to say, tugging down the hem of its waistcoat in a slightly flustered manner.  
“Uh. You got a name, pal?” Bucky asks.  
“Beytill,” he says proudly, and Bucky has a sudden coughing fit.  
“Okay,” Bucky pulls himself together. “He says there was a thief-”  
“Þjófr!”  
“Yes, yes,” Bucky mutters irritably. “A man, a human, stole their…” He looks to the creature.  
“Steinn,” Beytill says helpfully.  
“Magic rock.” Bucky’s brow creases. No, that’s not right. “Runestone?”  
Beytill jumps up and down, nearly slipping on the polished copper curve of the lampshade before righting itself.  
“Okay, so a human stole their runestone to some… river? Road?” Beytill gestures helpfully. “I ain’t got a fucking clue.”  
“So they want the stone back?” Luis asks. “We find the stone and they leave, yeah?”  
Bucky shakes his head as Beytill mimes a fistfight. “They fought, and the stone cracked. The force of it knocked them from their homeland, and they don’t know how to get back. So now they got no stone to guard and no ways to get back home.” Bucky chucks the little man under the chin with a silver fingertip. “I hear ya, little guy.”

Nat pulls out her walkie talkie, and moves over to one side to radio in an update before rejoining the group. Steve approaches the little folk cautiously, and one waves down at him from the ceiling. Bucky didn’t think it was possible, but his eyes manage to get bigger and bluer as he hesitantly waves back.  
“So, they’re not a threat,” Nat says, all business. “But they can’t stay here. What should we do with them?”  
“They’re Húsvættir.” Bucky hums thoughtfully. “You know anywhere you can get a decent cinnamon roll?”  
“Oh, come on!” Steve blurts out. “You’re not still thinking about food?”  
Bucky’s tail whips back and forth like an angry cat. “They’re house wights, take care of the home and hearth. So ya need to call up a Swedish bakery, not one of the bullshit hygge places, see if they can take ‘em in.”  
Nat frowns, but pulls out her phone and opens up Tripadvisor. “We need the situation contained, this isn’t like giving away abandoned puppies.”  
“They need to be with their people,” Bucky says sharply. “An’ if we can’t get them home, we’ll get them to the next best thing. New York is full of immigrants, it can take a few more.”  
Nat frowns, but picks out a locations. “What did you say they were?”  
“Húsvættir.” Bucky manages not to sound smug, and gives the creature on the lampshade another tap on the chin. “You’re gonna love it here, pal. Trust me.”

Bucky takes a furtive look around the room while Nat is busy on the phone, patiently explaining to the cafe owner that No, she isn’t joking and Yes, they’re very friendly.  
Rumlow and the Strike team are still on alert, but they’re busy with curious onlookers trying to get a look inside the bakery.  
Steve is still in thrall to the Húsvættir, his expression open and delighted. For some reason Bucky can’t stand to see it, and he presses his back to the wall, wishing for the thousandth time that he was a bit less… him.  
“Buck.” Luis’ voice is a warning in his ears, but judging from the indifference of the others, for his ears only.  
“Just an hour,” Bucky mutters, _sotto voce_.  
“You’ve already in shit with the old man,” Luis points out. “Don’t go making it-”  
Bucky doesn’t catch the rest of it, he’s already gone.

***

“You lost him,” Director Hill says for what feels like the tenth time. “Your first day on the job and you lost him.”  
Steve shifts uncomfortably, painfully aware that half of the facility is watching him get dressed down in the middle of a damned junction. This was not how he had planned on meeting one of the directors of the facility, especially not with people calling in bets and exchanging money out of Hill’s line of sight.  
Even Nat takes twenty bucks from Clint with a whispered Told you.  
“I took my eyes off him for a _second_ ,” Steve grits out through bared teeth, though it cuts little ice with Hill.  
He wants to yell, wants to point out that he was sent on an assignment with no briefing, no training and no resources, and yet somehow all this is his fault. But his Ma would spin right out of her grave and belt him one if he ever raised his voice to a woman, so he grits his teeth and tries to sound calm.  
“We were in a closed room,” Steve points out. “How was I to know he would slip past a dozen guards?”  
Steve still hasn’t figured out how he did it, and that bugs him more than getting his ear bent.  
Okay, maybe not as much. But Bucky had been right there. And then he wasn’t.  
So yeah, he fucked up, and on the first damn day. He just wished Hill would cut to the chase and fire him.

“Ah, there you are Maria!”  
Erskine comes strolling over, using his cane a little more heavily than in the privacy of his corner of the underground system. He gives Steve a warm smile before turning his attention to Hill. “What’s this I hear about my boy being in trouble?”  
Bucky had mentioned a Dad, but Steve had not linked it to Erskine, even with his kindly, paternal air and concern for Bucky’s wellbeing.  
“Cut the act, Abraham,” Hill says wearily. “It might work on Coulson, but you’re not talking to him now.”  
Erskine’s spine straightens a little. “Yes, yes. Now what seems to be the trouble?”  
“I lost him,” Steve blurts out.  
Instead of being angry, Erskine pats Steve on the arm. “Not to worry, he’ll be back soon enough.”  
“There’s probably already a dozen witness reports coming in to the press,” Hill sighs. “What if he goes wandering through Grand Central Station? What if he starts _talking_ to people?”  
“Are you suggesting that my son is not here at his own liberty, Ms Hill?” There is steel behind Erskine’s words.  
“This isn’t like sneaking out to a Pride march.” Hill points out. 

The conversation is cut short by the arrival of another agent, an officious looking man with thinning hair and a forced smile fixed permanently in place. Steve half wonders if he was born wearing pinstripes.  
“No sightings have come in yet,” he says, exasperated. “How many escapes this year alone? Three?”  
“Escape?” Erskine pounces on the word like a cat. “My son is not your prisoner, Mr Coulson.”  
“He’s not your son either.”  
“Yes he is!” Erskine snaps, and Steve reaches out to put a calming hand on his shoulder. “In every way that matters, he is! And he is not the SSR’s property, he is its guest.”  
“Well, our _guest_ is a six foot tall, bright red, government funded demon,” Coulson counters, his words sharp but his expression benign. “And if the United States Military lost a couple of nukes, don’t you think they’d get a little nervous?”  
“Now just hold on a minute,” Steve takes a step forward, and Coulson turns away, pointedly checking his watch.  
“I’m booked on the six o’clock news,” he says, giving Erskine a pointed look. “There’s only so many times I can pass off sightings as fancy dress costumes.”  
“Well, Phillip, you do like being on TV.” Erskine pats Steve’s hand. “Stand down, young man.”  
Coulson pauses to give Steve a once over. “You’re the Supernanny?” Steve bristles. “Director Coulson. Have you been fired yet?”  
Steve shakes his head. “No.”  
“You’ve been in that petting zoo of Erskine’s for what? Three hours? And we already have a major security breach?”  
_What?_  
Steve opens his mouth to argue, and Erskine puts a firm hand on his arm, thumb digging into the muscle of his bicep, and Steve holds his tongue. He just folds his arms across his chest and stares straight down at Coulson.  
“Eh,” Coulson brushes off any attempt at looming or intimidation. “Still two hours better than the last guy. If he’s not back by nightfall pack your bags.”  
“I…” Steve hesitates. “I’ve not got any bags.”  
All his possessions are still in New York in his apartment, he’s not had the chance to think about them yet.  
“Well,” Coulson gives him a wide, insincere smile. “One less thing to deal with.”  
“Phillip-” Erskine begins, but is cut short.  
“Hill, you’re with me,” Coulson flicks his fingers at Hill, motioning her to follow, and before Steve can make another sound he’s walking off.

Erskine takes off his glasses, giving them a polish with a handkerchief before he props them back on the end of his nose and peers up at Steve. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”  
Steve lets Erskine herd him back down to their quarters, holding his tongue until they reach the wide chamber lined with bookshelves and Luis’ tank. It seems unoccupied for the moment, though Steve’s gaze still flicks towards it. The water is murky enough that he could be moving about, unseen.  
Although it has only been a few hours since Steve was here last, it feels a lot longer, and he gratefully accepts the offer of a seat.  
The armchair is old and worn, but plush and comfortable. Steve turns down the offer of a drink - something clear and sharply resinous from an unlabelled bottle - in favour of tea. Alcohol doesn’t really work on him anymore, and it would only be wasted.  
Erskine has no qualms with drinking alone, and pours a generous measure before taking the other chair and sinking down with a sigh.  
“So those were the directors?” Steve asks cautiously when Erskine is settled.  
“Mmm. Yes. Maria was a field agent with us first, although Phillip has come to us more recently. CIA or one of those,” Erskine waves a hand airily. “One of those things.”  
“They seem…” Steve pauses. _Prejudiced? Unnecessarily cruel?_  
“Ah, don’t worry about Hill. Smoke and mirrors, my boy.” Steve looks confused, and Erskine takes pity on him. “You saw the people around you, yes?”  
“Hard to miss,” Steve mutters, still sore about being a source of entertainment for them all.  
“It is not an easy thing, to be a woman in charge,” Erskine says sagely. “Though I can’t say I agree with her on… certain aspects of this place I am also aware that, although it her lips, they are not her words. Do you understand?”  
Steve takes a sip of tea, rolling it around on his tongue like Erskine’s comments. “She has to toe the party line,” he says finally. “And be seen doing so.”  
Erskine gives him a proud smile. “Exactly. Now Coulson, he will try to be your friend. He will try to be everyone’s friend. He will tell you he understands, that he sympathises. But he has his own agenda.” Erskine takes a long drink of liquor. “He will take the rug out from under you, and wonder aloud where the rug has gone. Maria will tell you, in no uncertain terms, why the rug has to go.”  
Steve sighs, and wishes he had taken the offer of something stronger than tea. “I don’t have the stomach for politics.”  
“My boy,” Erskine chuckles. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

The tea turns sour in Steve’s mouth, as if the milk was curdling on his tongue, and he carefully puts the cup down. “About that.”  
Erskine makes an enquiring noise and adds another slosh of liquor to his glass. Steve sits forward in his seat, wringing his hands together.  
“I think…” he begins. “I think I’m the wrong guy for this job.”  
Of course Erskine doesn’t take him seriously, just sips his eye-watering liquor and chuckles. It’s one more thing in a day filled with them.  
“He doesn’t take me seriously!” Steve bursts out. “He has no respect for me, or you, or anyone. And he keeps whacking me with his tail!” The last point is churlish, Steve knows. But the constant teasing, the smirking, the stupid tight leather pants that draws the eye to Bucky’s… _Not thinking about it_. The whole lot of it riles him. More than it should do.  
Erskine waits until Steve runs out of complaints and falls into an irritable silence. “He likes you.”  
“He calls me ‘the Nanny’.”  
“But he does talk to you.” Erskine points to the amulet around Steve’s neck, the silver delicately etched with runes. “And I recognise his handiwork anywhere. He gave you that Ægishjálmr, do you know why?”  
Steve’s hand wraps around the talisman unconsciously, as though it were precious. “To keep me safe.”  
“Where is your family from?” Erskine asks, and the change in subject is enough to make Steve’s head ache.  
“My… my mother was Irish.”  
“And your father?” Erskine prompts.  
Steve sits back in his chair, his fingers still tracing the sharp edges of the inscribed runes. “I don’t know.”  
Erskine looks thoughtful for a moment. “Dublin was a Viking settlement, you know?”  
Steve’s fingernail catches on the deep groove of a sigil. “So what? You’re saying I’m a Viking?”  
“No, my boy,” Erskine chuckles. “But there is history flowing through your veins, and like calls to like.” He pulls back the collar of his shirt, the cotton worn and soft, to reveal a thick silver hoop hanging from a chain around his neck. It is stamped with a rounded script that Steve barely registers before the shirt is tucked back in place.  
Erskine hauls himself out of his chair, and carries his drink over to the bookshelves. “Now, if I remember rightly,” he says, running his fingers along the shelves. “I promised you some reading material?”

***

In the end it is Wanda of all people who takes pity on Steve, and takes him on a tour of the facility.  
She may not be big and red and obnoxious, but he can’t help but notice how the staff treat her. There is nothing overt about it, just second glances, a quick check that she is under supervision before moving on with whatever their duties happen to be.  
They walk up to the Infirmary, where Steve catches sight of Dr Banner at work, sitting at a microscope and working through a set of slides. Steve doesn’t want to bother him while he’s busy, so they take a look at the canteen and the break room, where Clint is cradling a cup of coffee like his life depends on it. He waves at Wanda, seemingly unaffected by what bothers the other staff, and gives Steve a half-assed run though of security protocols while Wanda flicks through what’s on the TV in the corner.  
She doesn’t use a remote to change channels, just twitches her fingers.  
Sitcom _twitch_ cartoon _twitch_ procedural crime drama _twitch_. It’s hard to focus on what Clint is saying.  
“So yeah, that’s pretty much it,” Clint shrugs. “Nothing special really. Nat will try and push you into firearm training, but don’t let her, alright? Not everything can be solved with bullets.”  
“Yeah,” Steve says absently, watching shaky phone camera footage of Prospect Park on the news.  
“I mean, me?” Clint continues, oblivious. “Bow and arrow. I know, I know, sounds weird, but I got these silver tipped arrows, right? So if we ever come face to face with a werewolf? Or a vampire?” Clint thumbs his shirt. “I’ll be laughing.”  
On the TV the camera zooms in on a shape moving across a distant rooftop. The figure’s overcoat flaps dramatically in the wind. So does his tail.  
“Oh,” Clint finally catches on. “Oh shit.”

While Clint panics Steve and Wanda retreat, going back to their section of the station.  
They find Pietro and Erskine in the Rec Room, game of table tennis abandoned in favour of staring at the TV. On screen Coulson, perspiring slightly under the studio lights and rolling cameras, adjusts his tie while the garishly dressed news reporter gestures to a point in mid air. After a moment a succession of blurry stills flick across the screen slightly too far left of where he’s pointing. A tickertape scrolls below them with the latest updates in local news.  
Steve follows Wanda into the room, standing at a distance while she leans into her brother’s side. On screen, a series of tabloid headlines flash past, each headline more lurid and improbable. _My wild night with Hellboy!_ Screams one. _Hellboy ate my dog!_ Exclaims another.  
Steve clenches his fists, and desperately wants to punch something.  
“Would you look at that,” Coulson smiles, no doubt seeing the same images. “I believe it’s called cosplaying? So impressive what people can make.”  
The reporter looks dubious. “So you’re claiming that these aren’t real?”  
“Of course they’re not real,” Coulson scoffs. “Don’t you think we’d notice if a giant green-”  
“Red,” the reporter corrects.  
“My apologies, red,” Coulson adds smoothly. “Don’t you think we’d notice a giant red man wandering around the SSR? We’re a small scientific research company, we’re not-”  
“So you’re saying that Hellboy isn’t real?”  
“Of course he’s not real!” Coulson laughs, and Steve has to quell the sudden urge to find the man and deck him. “Let me ask you this,” he leans forward, drawing the interviewer closer. “If he’s real, how come no one can get a decent shot of him?”

When the report ends Erskine goes back to his quarters, while Wanda and Pietro go off to make themselves dinner. Steve takes one of the couches and starts working his way through the books Erskine loaned to him. There’s still an hour before nightfall and his subsequent unemployment, so he may as well find out a little more about himself while he waits.  
The thing is, no one else acts like he’s leaving. For all the panic running through the SSR, the agents sent out on a search party, the people huddled over the news waiting for more sightings, down in the ‘Petting Zoo’ as Coulson called it, all is… well, not normal. Mundane.  
Steve chews over it, while pretending not to, so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice he has company until a chocolate chip muffin gets thrown at him.  
“Hey, what?!” Steve yelps when the plastic wrapped muffin smacks him in the face. He jumps to his feet, spilling books all over the floor.  
“Hey,” Bucky grins at him around a straw, sucking noisily on a Starbucks frappuccino. “How’s it goin’?”  
“What the hell?” Steve snaps. “Where the hell have you been?”  
Bucky shakes his take out cup in Steve’s direction. “That any way to talk to guy? I brought you a muffin, didn’t I?”  
Steve picks the muffin up off the floor and gives the package a shake. The muffin is flattened on one side, but still edible, and okay maybe he is a little hungry, he skipped breakfast to get down here on time this morning and hasn’t eaten since.  
“You want me to get fired?” Steve snaps, feeling churlish.  
“They ain’t gonna fire you,” Bucky snorts.  
“What makes you so damn sure?” Steve feels like throwing the muffin right back in his grinning face, but Bucky would probably laugh it off and eat the damn thing. And chocolate chip is his favourite.

Bucky doesn’t get a chance to answer, as Coulson and Hill come storming into the room.  
“Where did you get that?” Coulson points to Bucky’s coffee. “Did you go into a store and _buy_ that?”  
“Nah, I ain’t that stupid.” Bucky grins around the straw. “Stole it.”  
“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters, while Coulson puts his face in his hands.  
“Bucky, you know the rules,” Hill says, far more calmly. “No going topside unsupervised.”  
“What? I just wanted to grab a coffee, get a little R &R,” Bucky shrugs. “No one saw me.”  
“Yes they did!” Coulson snaps, rubbing his throbbing temple. “Do you have any idea how much manpower you cost us? The search parties, the gagging orders to the press? It all costs time and money, money we can’t afford to be throwing away, and you persist-”  
“Phillip,” Erskine appears in the doorway. “That’s quite enough.”  
Coulson points a finger at Steve. “You’re supposed to be keeping him on a leash.”  
Steve bites the inside of his cheek, his mouth filling with the taste of copper.  
“I’ll take care of this,” Erskine soothes, guiding Coulson to the door. He gives Bucky a stern look, and Bucky doesn’t return his gaze, turning away to stare at the wall.  
The door closes behind them, but it’s not enough to block out the sounds of arguing.

“Why do you have to do this, Red?” Hill asks, exasperated.  
Bucky shrugs. “I just wanted some coffee.”  
“There’s coffee here,” Hill points out, and Bucky huffs, scratching at his cheek with the chewed end of his straw.  
“Not the same.”  
The sounds of argument fade, and Hill’s stance softens. “How is she?”  
For a long moment it seems like Bucky won’t answer, but he sniffs abruptly, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “Still has good days.”  
The door opens, and Coulson gestures for her to come with him. She gives Bucky a last, unexpectedly sympathetic look before following, pulling the door closed behind her.  
Steve breathes into the weighted, uncomfortable silence that falls between them, but doesn’t give voice to the questions crowding on his tongue. With the Directors gone the cocky slant of Bucky’s shoulders has vanished. He flicks the tip of his mangled straw back and forth, all appetite gone.  
Steve wants to say _something_ , but what exactly he has no idea. He takes a hesitant step towards Bucky, flattened muffin still clasped in his hand, but the door opens and Erskine comes back into the room.  
He looks Bucky up and down, every inch the disappointed parent. Steve knows that look from every time he came home with a black eye and bleeding knuckles, every time his Ma had to pick him up from the police station. He knows the bitter sting of it all, the clenched fists and the bloody teeth and impossible gulf between what is lawful and what is _right_.  
“Bucky,” Erskine says softly.  
“Yeah, I know,” Bucky crushes the cup in his silver fist and throws it in the trash. “I’m grounded.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kveðja - greetings  
> Kveðja- blood stained  
> segja frá - reveal yourself  
> mikill harmr er at oss kveðinn - great grief is sent to us  
> Beytill - Horse penis  
> Þjófr - theif


	4. Revenants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Wait a minute._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :braces self:

Two weeks.  
For two miserable weeks, Bucky is grounded. Two weeks in his room behind a passcode activated lock. It strikes Steve as a little barbaric as punishment goes, but Bucky just shrugs and says at least he gets to keep the TV.   
Bucky doesn’t spend all his time alone, he has his cats and books and projects for company, his desk littered with scraps of silver and copper and shotgun shells. And when he’s not reading or sulking, the twins make a point of visiting, Steve often finds Wanda lounging on the bed, using Bucky’s knee as a pillow while she pets the cats and watches some dubious reality show on TV.   
Steve checks in on him three times a day, bringing his meals from the canteen and clearing up the empty dishes. The first day Bucky sulks on his huge flatbed truck bed, cats draped over every sprawling limb, and doesn’t say a word. The second day he’s just as silent, but he starts hiding his empty plates around the room.   
Maybe he just likes pissing Steve off, maybe it’s something to quell the boredom, but by day four Steve is sick of rummaging around in the ventilation shafts for missing bowls. The cats are no help, especially as they use the shafts to go topside, causing environmental damage and bringing back the odd gift of dead mouse.  
And there’s that damned _tail_ of his. Forever trying to sneak up the back of Steve’s shirt or wrap around his ankle and trip him up. Asshole.  
Without any assignments to preoccupy them, Steve hitches a lift with Barton back to New York and packs his bags. He still isn’t exactly filled with confidence about his job security, but gives his two weeks notice with the landlord and puts everything he owns in the back of a Carter Logistics van.  
It’s not much, all his worldly possessions. Most of his adult life has been spent training to be a nurse and then travelling with Médecins Sans Frontières, so he’s not had much time to accrue possessions. And when you spend so much time caring for people who have nothing, material goods kind of lose their appeal.   
Clint takes one look at the two trash bags that contain Steve’s worldly possessions and decides on a detour to a hole in the wall pizza place on the way back, declaring it the best slice in New York State.  
The pizza is good, and greasy enough to stain the paper plate it comes on opaque, so Steve buys a slice to go.   
It’s not like he’s buying it _for_ Bucky, but if he wants it. Well. Yeah. Yeah, that’s good.

When Steve gets back Wanda is waiting for him at the main hub, and makes a grab for one of his bags. After a brief tussle, one that gets the attention of a few passing agents, Steve hands over his bag of clothes, the lighter of the two. Wanda hefts the weight and gives him a sharp glare, but allows him the dignity of carrying his own books.  
“There’s a room available in the upper levels,” Wanda points to a tunnel Steve hasn’t ventured down yet. “Barton’s neighbour got promoted out. Or there’s a place down near the cargo bay, it’s small but it’s close to the vehicle exit and-”  
“Anything near you guys?” Steve asks, and it’s worth it to see the way her expression shifts from brisk and efficient to guarded and hopeful.  
“You want to be down in the Petting Zoo?”  
Steve grimaces. “Do you have to call it that?”  
Wanda pauses, her lips parted as if to speak. She takes a look around, her expression shuttered in the presence of curious onlookers. “This way.”  
Steve holds his tongue until they are walking down to the lower tunnels. They skirt past Erskine’s library and Luis’ tank, taking a side tunnel. Steve still can’t get his bearings on how the tunnels twist and turn, relying on Wanda to lead the way.  
“Wanda,” Steve says gently. “You can’t be okay with it.”  
She snorts, and mutters something under her breath. The words are not English, and they have a weight behind them, like the distant rolling of thunder. She comes to a sudden stop at one of the doors spaced along the tunnel.  
“It’s something Bucky said,” she drops Steve’s bag at her side.  
“What?” Steve feels his hackles rise. “Go along with it? Keep your head down and-”  
“No,” she dismisses his words with a flick of her black-painted nails. “ _Remember what you are, don’t ever forget it, because no one else will_ , he said. _Wear it like a shield, like a weapon, and it can’t be used against you_.”

Steve sucks in a sharp breath, and it takes a long, awful minute to remember he doesn’t have asthma anymore, that his lungs are whole and healthy.  
Wanda points to a nearby door, a solitary post-it note stuck in the middle. “That’s the free room. The one over there is mine.” She points to the next door along, which has an assortment of silver charms and trinkets hanging from the door handle.  
Steve nods and walks over. On the post-it note is a scrawl of initials and sums of money.  
“We took bets on whether you’d take the room.” Wanda looks sheepish. “Sorry.”  
“It’s okay,” Steve offers her a crooked smile and pushes open the door. “How much will Bucky lose if I take it?”  
“He put five bucks on you staying.” Wanda picks up the bag again. “Professor Erskine bet ten.”  
“You bet against me?” Steve asks, giving her a mock-scandalised look. “I am shocked, Wanda. Shocked.”  
She huffs, not quite a laugh, but close. He’ll get there eventually. “You seemed like an easy mark.”

The room is small and sparsely furnished, but comfortable. There is a bed in one corner, a table and chair in the other, and an ensuite with a poky little shower cubicle.  
“There’s a communal shower on the upper levels, where the other agents are lodged.” Wanda dumps the bag of clothes on the floor and flops down on the bed. “Laundry pick up is twice weekly, same as mail drop.”  
Steve nods absently, taking a look around. He puts the take-out box of pizza over by the door where he won’t forget it, and his bag down by a bookcase set into the wall. He wonders absently what used to be there. A junction box? Fuses? He reaches into his bag and takes out a couple of books, putting them on the bedside table. He glances back at Wanda, staring up at the ceiling and twining a strand of hair around her finger, and takes out a framed photo, putting it up on a shelf.  
“Who’s that?” Wanda asks curiously.  
“My mother.” Steve unpacks a couple more books and adds them to shelf, trying to make the room look a little less empty. “Sarah.”  
Wanda hums an acknowledgement. “She’s pretty.”  
“Yeah.” Steve adjust the position of the photo slightly. “She was.”  
Wanda doesn’t offer sympathies, and Steve is grateful. Sympathies are well-meant, he gets that, but they also sometimes feel like so much noise, ne weight, no substance, no _use_.  
“Did Erskine tell you about me?” He asks suddenly, and wonders where the question came from.  
“Yeah,” Wanda smiles to herself. “Wish granting Djinn.”  
“So they say.” There is a chest at the end of the bed, something his Ma would have called a Hope Chest, and Steve lifts the lid, but nothing jumps out at him. There’s only a change of bedding and an extra pillow, nothing nefarious or strange.  
“What about you?” Steve asks. “Faerie curse?”  
Wanda nods, but says nothing further.  
“Do you…” Steve hesitates, uncertain how to take the tangle in his chest and put it into words. “Are you happier?”  
Wanda stills, her hand caught mid-air, frozen in place. Steve clears his throat, meaning to apologise for being so intrusive, but she sits up abruptly, fixing him with a stare that could peel paint.  
“Have you ever heard of Sokovia?”

The name sounds familiar. He’s seen it, on a sign up sheet somewhere, a war torn country under the thumb of a brutal dictator. Years of rioting and bombing runs rendered the city of Novi Grad barely habitable, and no amount of relief missions sent by the UN or MSF made any difference.   
“Yeah,” he says softly.  
“We were eating dinner,” Wanda’s eyes lose their focus. “Sitting around the table. Pietro was in trouble at school again, and he and Táto were fighting at the table. There was this… whistling sound, and then…” She stops, pulling her mouth into a tight line. “The second shell landed right in the kitchen, but it didn’t explode. And I just. I just stared at it. I couldn’t stop looking at it, like it was a wolf or something, waiting for me to look the other way before-”  
“Wanda,” Steve whispers, and she shakes her head.  
“Pietro pulled me up, got me moving. We didn’t even stop for our shoes, we ran out into the street in our socks and we kept on running.” She blinks rapidly. “We hid in the forest, we thought we’d be safe in there.” She shrugs, and wipes under her eye with the tip of her finger, careful not to smudge her mascara. “Babička used to tell us the stories, all the riddle games and rules, and when they couldn’t cheat us they let us go back. But by then Novi Grad was gone, and what had been days to us was years for the rest of the world. We were twelve when we went into the woods, and that was three years ago.”  
“Jesus Christ,” Steve breathes, and thinks nothing of walking over to the bed, of scooping Wanda up into his arms and holding her as tightly as he dares. “Jesus Christ, Wanda.”  
He tries to come up with something better to say, something wise, something comforting, but all he can do is hold her and shake his head, cursing under his breath at the _unfairness_ of it all.

“So what about you?” Wanda’s voice is muffled against Steve’s shirt, where she seems content to stay. “Bucky says you rubbed off a genie and he made you hot.”  
“What?!”  
Steve nearly drops her, and manages to shuffle forward and dump her on the bed, where she rolls around laughing.  
It’s a good sound, hearing her laugh. It’s worth the embarrassment.  
“I _rescued_ a Djinn,” Steve’s voice pitches up a little, defensive. “And he didn’t make me hot, he made me…” the word _healthy_ sticks in Steve’s throat.  
“Bucky says the before picture was pretty cute too.”  
“Well Bucky needs to shut his mouth!” Steve skulks away from the bed, his ears burning. “My files are none of his business.”  
Steve pulls at the collar of his shirt, when did it get so damn warm?  
“C’mon,” Wanda gives Steve’s solitary bag of clothing a nudge with her foot. “Let’s get some coffee, you can unpack later.”  
Steve nods absently, still a little off-kilter at being described as cute, until something occurs to him. “Hey, wait. You’re too young to be drinking coffee.”  
“Oh my _god_ ,” Wanda heaves herself to her feet and stalks to the door. “You sound like Bucky.”  
Steve huffs, though bringing up his name reminds Steve of the slice of cold pizza waiting for him. He picks up the box, and takes a last look around the room. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but it looks a little less small to his eyes now.  
“Steve, come on!” Wanda yells from the hallway, and he grabs the key hanging from the lock before following.

***

Bucky comes sloping into the library at the end of the two weeks, his thumbs jammed into the front pockets of his tight leather pants, his shoulders rounded.  
Steve is sitting in one of the armchairs, trying to focus on his copy of the Prose Edda while Luis circles around in his tank, offering helpful comments. Erskine is picking through his shelves, books already piled up on the drinks table and spare chairs. He’s been researching for days now, ever since Nat came in with an update on the Vættir, settled into their new home. Things must have been going well since the report came with a case of cardamom rolls, sweet and buttery, the dough twisted to resemble snail shells.   
Steve had saved one for Bucky, and taken it to his room later with a cup of coffee. The nearest Starbucks was fifty miles away in Cherry Hill, so Steve had done his best with a can of whipped cream and extra packets of sugar. It must have tasted terrible, but Bucky had acted like it was the best damn coffee in the word. Then kind of ruined it by smacking Steve’s ass with his tail on the way out.  
“Hey Dad,” Bucky mumbles, feigning nonchalance against a shelf of Enochian journals.  
Erskine gives him a warm smile. “There you are, my boy.” He thrusts a handful of books Bucky’s way. “Here.”  
Bucky, to Steve’s surprise, doesn’t complain about being given work. “Whaddya need?” he asks, taking the chair across from Steve and sitting down.  
Luis swims into view in his tank, webbed hands brushing up against the glass. “Professor’s got a bug up his-”   
“Yes, thank you, Luis,” Erskine interrupts smoothly. “There have been a number of incidents, none serious enough to gain the attention of the SSR, but combined…” He trails off, and Bucky cracks open the top book on his pile, silver fingers delicate against the old leather..  
“What kind of things?” he asks, and glances over at Steve and his stack of reading material. “Got you working too?”  
“It’s fine,” Steve says automatically. “Not like I got anything else to do?”  
“Huh.” Bucky looks Steve up and down, and he has to fight down the urge to squirm under the gaze. “Not up at the gym or something?”  
“Hardly,” Steve snorts. “I’ve never been to a gym in my life, I don’t plan on starting now.”  
Bucky makes an intrigued sound, but doesn’t give voice to whatever he’s thinking, turning his attention to Erskine.

“What’s bothering you, Pops?” Bucky asks, a little of that swagger returning.  
“I contacted some old colleagues on a…” Erskine hesitates. “A hunch. As well as the runestone of the Vættir, several other items have gone missing. The Codex Upsaliensis has been stolen from the University of Uppsala, and the The Codex Regius from the Árni Magnússon Institute.” Erskine pauses, running his thumb along the spines of the book in his hand. “There is no knowing what else has been taken.”  
Steve glances down at the book he’s working through. “What makes you think it’s related? Historical artefacts get stolen all the time.”  
“None of the Codex match up.” Bucky flicks through a few pages. “They were written back in the fourteenth century, so all we got left is little bits and pieces. Those bits are what makes up the Prose Edda and the like, but the original texts don’t match up to each other. They all got variations, differences.” Bucky shrugs. “They’re all rewrites of lost originals, translations of translations.”  
“How d’you know which are the right parts, then?” Luis asks, bumping against the glass of his tank.  
“The Codex Regius is considered the most complete of the surviving fragments,” Erskine mutters. “It’s the basis for all editions of the Edda.”  
“What are we actually looking for, Dad?” Bucky asks, dragging his train of thought back on track.  
“A link,” Erskine replies, walking over to give Bucky a gentle pat on the head. “These events are connected, I am certain.”   
Bucky endures the pat, but when Erskine ruffles his fingers through his dark hair he squirms down in his seat, trying to get out of reach. Erskine taps the back of the chair absently, then moves away.

For a few minutes the room falls silent, everyone absorbed in their reading, Erskine pacing up and down. Steve flicks through his book, trying to tamp down on a swell of frustration as nothing he’s reading makes any kind of sense.   
“You alright there, Stevie?” Luis asks.  
“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “I’m just. Does this make any sense to you?”  
Steve walks over to the tank and holds the book up to the glass, and Luis reads aloud from the text. “Thought he would give and the ravens gladden, there is ever a wolf where his ears I spy."   
Steve slams the book shut. “Well that makes a heap of sense.”  
“That was some Tolkien shit right there,” Luis agrees.  
“It’s saying there’s no smoke without fire,” Bucky says, still flicking through his book. He glances up to see Steve and Luis staring at him. “What?”  
Steve puts the book to one side. “Why would they steal the originals? What’s in them? What’s so useful.”  
“The Edda is a collection of Norse myths, stories of how the world was formed.” Erskine answers, still pacing restlessly.  
Luis bobs up and down in his tank. “Hey, Bucko?” he asks. “What was that magic stone for? The one that got smashed?”  
“The runestone?” Bucky sinks a little deeper into his chair, his ass hanging off the edge of the seat and his tail dragging on the floor. “It was like a key or something. Each wight has one, sacred duty, blah blah blah.”  
Erskine looks intrigued. “And what are they for?”  
Bucky shrugs in the depths of his chair. “You put ‘em together they open the Ásbrú. Kind of like those…” he waves his hands around, silver and red. “Those little robots you stick together to make a big robot. You remember I had them as a kid? Oh no, because you wouldn’t buy me one.”  
Erskine makes a soft ‘tch’ sound. “You would only have broken it.”  
“I would have been careful,” Bucky grouses. He leans his head towards Steve, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “I was a deprived child.”  
Steve lets out a startled chuckle, and Bucky grins at him.

“An Ásbrú?” Luis asks. “What’s an Ásbrú? Is it, like treasure? Is it gold? People do all kinds of shit for a chunk of gold.”  
“Bifröst,” Bucky says, as if that makes anything clearer.  
“Oh. Cool.” Luis circles around in his tank. “What’s a Bifröst?”  
“The Rainbow Bridge,” Erskine stops pacing, his features paling behind his scruff of greying beard.  
Bucky snorts. “Gay.”  
“Dude,” Luis raps on the glass. “That is not on.”  
“What?” Bucky tries to sit up, grasping the arm of his chair with his silver hand and hauling himself upright. “I can say it, I’m-”  
“No.” Luis points a webbed finger at him. “Nuh-uh. Not cool.”  
“What’s a Rainbow Bridge?” Steve asks Erskine, ignoring Bucky and Luis for the time being.  
It takes Erskine a moment to respond, pulling off his glasses and polishing them with a handkerchief.  
“The Bifröst is a portal to the nine realms.” Erskine spends far too long examining his glasses. “Asgard, where the gods reside. Midgard, our own realm.” Erskine sighs. “And many other places, both wonderful and terrible.”  
“So someone is trying to access the Bridge,” Steve slaps Bucky on the thigh to get his attention. “They want to get to one of these other realms.”  
Erskine finally looks up. “Or call something forth.” He puts his book back on the shelf, not sliding it into place between the other volumes but shoving it on top of them. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to... “  
Erskine pats at his pockets, as if looking for something, and without another word turns and leaves.  
“Huh.” Bucky watches him hurry away. “What’s up with him?”

***

Bucky ambles into the Rec Room, scrubbing his hands over his bare chest. It’s not that he’s warm, he just likes seeing Steve stammer and fluster when he wanders around the Zoo without a shirt on.  
He finds Steve still going through those books of Erskine’s, sat straight-backed on the couch with a musty old tome open in his lap. He’s even making notes, for fuck’s sake. There’s a little notepad on the arm rest, held open by a biro so he can jot down questions.  
Ugh. Boy scout.  
Bucky stomps over and grabs the TV remote before flopping down on the other end of the couch. He flicks on the TV and swings his legs around, dropping his combat-boot clad feet in Steve’s lap.  
“Bucky!” Steve grumbles, lifting Bucky’s feet up so he can rescue the book.   
He doesn’t shove Bucky off, just adjusts his feet to a more comfortable position, and puts the book over his ankles.  
Huh.  
Bucky flicks through the channels until he finds a cooking show, dropping the remote on his bare stomach and folding his hands behind his head. Steve’s gaze flicks over to him, lingering on the breadth of his shoulders and the smooth crimson skin of his stomach. He clears his throat and returns to his book, pretending not to notice Bucky’s sly grin.  
On the screen a friendly, slightly thickset man enthuses about chicken wings marinated in hot sauce, habanero powder and capsaicin extract, before attempting to eat eight of them.  
“Why are you watching this crap?” Steve glances up at the screen to see the man struggling over his second wing and describing the pain he is in. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”  
Bucky shifts about, ostensibly to make himself more comfortable, but really it’s to make his leather pants pull down enough to expose a hipbone and get Steve blushing again. “All work and no play makes Steve a pain in the ass.”  
Steve pokes him in the thigh with his biro. “Asshole.”

In spite of his derision, Steve starts watching along, muttering under his breath when the man starts talking about quitting on the seventh wing. There are tears running down the guys face, and Bucky hears Steve whisper “Come on, man.”  
On the screen the guy crams the last shreds of chicken in his mouth, and the gathered crowd around him starts cheering. He gulps down a glass of milk before turning to the camera, face red, eyes streaming, and tries to speak.  
The red light in the ceiling starts flickering on and off, and Bucky swears under his breath.   
“Motherfucker, it’s a double bill too.”  
“Up you get, Buck,” Steve slaps Bucky’s calf. “Time to go to work.”  
Bucky doesn’t move, glowering at the TV when Steve snatches the remote up from his stomach and turns it off. “Can’t it wait half an hour?”  
“No.” Steve gives Bucky’s feet a shove. “C’mon, pal. On your feet.”  
Bucky curses under his breath but hauls himself upright. “You’re no fun.”

They walk over to the library, but with Erskine is nowhere to be seen Bucky goes over to rap on Luis’ tank.   
“Hey, fish!” he yells, knocking on the glass. “What’s goin’ on?”  
Luis’ face appears from between the drifting fronds of seaweed, and he swims up to the glass. “Dude, you know I’m an amphibian, right?”  
“Big words, big mouth.” Bucky presses his silver hand to the glass, his fingers making a light, almost musical sound as they tap against the surface. “Where’s the fire?”  
“Iceland,” Erskine says as he enters the library. “Ms Romanov is waiting in the jet.”  
“The jet?” Luis asks, excited. “We’re going in the jet?”  
“Not you, I’m afraid. You’ll be staying here with me,” Erskine says softly before turning to Bucky. “Take the twins with you.”  
Bucky nods. “What we got?”  
Erskine hesitates, glancing at Steve, who has come over to Bucky’s side. “A report has come in from Reykjavik. Some kind of… ice zombie.”  
Bucky claps his hands together. “Oh, you gotta be freakin’ kidding me! Zombies, so we’re talking fire, right? I can take grenades right? I’ve been saving them for a special occasion.”  
Erskine’s expression darkens. “Where did you come by grenades, young man?”  
 _Damnit_.  
“Uh… nowhere.”  
Erskine takes a step towards him, and Bucky retreats a half pace before his back hits the tank.  
“Poker,” Luis chips in. “Royal flush. Barton and-”  
“Sonofa-” Bucky hisses. “Luis, shut up or ya can kiss goodbye to those pickled eggs of Barton’s.”  
“Dude!” Luis yelps.  
“Steven,” Erskine doesn’t take his eyes off Bucky. “When this assignment is over, could you clear my son’s quarters of contraband and return them to the armoury?”  
Bucky sees Steve’s nod out of the corner of his eye. _Traitor_. His hand is surprisingly warm on Bucky’s arm though.  
“C’mon, Buck,” Steve says, quiet and coaxing. “Let’s go.”

Steve goddamn Rogers. He leads Bucky like a fucking lamb back to his quarters, and waits patiently by the door while Bucky rummages through his shelves, looking for anything that might be useful. Icelandic zombies, shit, who even knew Iceland had zombies. Bucky searches his desk, but there’s no talisman against the undead, frozen or otherwise. The Samaritan goes into the holster belted around his waist, and he picks out an assortment of charms and talismans, clipping each one to his belt.   
Steve is still wearing his runes, which should be enough. Bucky hesitates over an iron chain bracelet before moving on. He grabs an extra box of ammo, the glass shells rattling, and at the last minute a box of table salt.  
“Here,” he throws the salt at Steve, who catches it with a dubious look.   
“Salt?”  
“Yeah, well…” Bucky pulls on his overcoat. “Road might be slippery.”  
“We’re going to Iceland.” Steve doesn’t look at the slice of bare chest revealed by Bucky’s open coat. “You might want to put on a sweater.”  
Bucky snorts. “I’m fine, _Mom_.”  
Steve grumbles under his breath, but opens the lock and herds Bucky out of the room, saying nothing more about catching cold as they swing by the twins quarters to pick them up.  
Pietro bounces from foot to foot, about ready to burn through his trainers in his excitement.  
“Zombies?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth when he opens his door. “Are you kidding me?”  
Bucky ignores him and skulks over to Wanda. She’s dressed in her usual red and black, her nails painted crimson, and when Steve tells her to put on something warmer she actually listens to him, ducking back into her room to get a thick red coat.   
Bucky clicks his tongue irritably. She never listens when Bucky tells her that kind of shit. And okay, maybe he’s a little overbearing, half the charms and talismans he makes are intended for her. He casts a glance over her, catching sight of the silver rings on her fingers and knotted cords on her wrists, as well as the talismans hanging around her neck. He ticks them off, one by one. Claw ring for strength, obsidian pendant and jet ring for protection from harm, bloodstone in case she does get hurt.  
Bucky nods to himself, reassured. “We ready?”  
The twins nod, Pietro bouncing around like a labrador while Wanda tries to look professional.  
“Okay, let’s go kill some ice zombies.”

***

Nat is waiting in the jet, taxiing out of the hanger hidden in the trees and pulling around. It seems to skulk like a bird of prey, wings cupped in an crooked position. Steve keeps one hand on Bucky’s shoulder until he shrugs it off.  
“You think I’m running when there’s zombies, Steve?” Bucky snorts. “You kidding me?”  
Steve huffs, moving his hand to Bucky’s arm, fingers gripping the worn sleeve. “Not taking any chances, Buck.”  
Pietro reaches the sleek black plane first, yelling “Shotgun!” as he climbs the ramp. Wanda curses vehemently in Sokovian and chases after him.  
Steve pauses, taking a look at their surroundings. The estate is not much to look at, patchy, overgrown grass and high stone walls, but there is no sign of a runway, the jet idling on the grass.   
“It’s not your regular twin-prop airplane,” Bucky explains, pointing to a set of circular turbine fans embedded in the wings. “This baby is a Quinjet. You see those big rotors in the wings? They’re fully adjustable, can take it straight up, sideways, any damn way you please.”  
“Holy shit,” Steve breathes, pausing as Bucky clomps up the ramp. “What about the Military? I was under the impression they don’t like jets flying around United States airspace.”  
“Nah,” Bucky gives him a sly grin. “That’s why we got a cloaking device.”  
“A what?!” Steve clatters up the ramp after him. “You’re kidding me, right?”  
“Red? Are you giving away Military secrets?” Nat shouts from her seat at the helm. She’s wearing a bulky set of headphones, one earpiece shoved back so she can hear her passengers while she goes through her last pre-flight checks.  
“Yup!” Bucky drops into one of the bucket seats behind her and stretches his legs out, letting his coat fall open a little.  
“Put ‘em away, Red.” Nat gives him a sly grin, and Bucky cheerfully gives her the finger.

Steve takes a moment to look around the jet while Bucky lounges, taking in the sleek lines and contours with an artist’s eye. There’s not much room inside, a cargo area at the rear and seating up at the front just behind the cockpit.   
Pietro, already sitting in the co-pilot seat, spins around to poke his tongue out as Wanda hits the door mechanism, the ramp pulling up and blending seamlessly with the rest of the ship. She leads Steve over to the remaining seats and shows him how to buckle himself in, before taking the seat behind Pietro and giving it a shove with her foot. Pietro ignores her, leaning over to Nat.  
“Natalia, light of my life,” he sing-songs with a broad grin. “Jsi můj miláček.”  
“Never gonna happen, kid,” Nat says lightly, flicking a few switches on the console in front of her.  
“Never is a strong word.” Pietro looks reproachful.  
“Accurate, though,” Nat smirks as she pulls on the control stick.  
There is a low hiss of pneumatics, and through the viewscreen the world drops away.  
Bucky has no shame when it comes to staring out the window, hooking his chin on the back of the pilot seat and watching avidly as New Jersey recedes to a mottled patchwork of green. She hugs the coastline as they speed north, low enough for Bucky to see the white scratch of waves rippling across the water.  
“You weren’t kidding about the cloaking device,” Steve murmurs as they sweep past Long Island.  
“Retro-reflective panels,” Natasha explains. “Which is actually a misnomer, it’s an active light refraction system.”  
Steve takes a moment to answer. “I don’t know what that means.”  
“It makes the ship look like its surroundings, fucks about with the light,” Bucky scratches a metal finger against a horn, picking at the flaking, severed edge. “If you’re right up close to us, you can make out the outline, but that’s only a problem for the geese.”  
“Stop poking at it,” Wanda leans over to slap Bucky’s hand away.  
“They’re getting long,” Bucky mutters, rubbing the red flakes from his fingertip.  
“You should-” Steve stops abruptly, then seems to force himself to keep talking. “You should let them grow out. Can’t be good for them, getting cut back.”  
“If he cuts too close they start bleeding,” Wanda says. _Traitor_.  
Steve’s expression hardens. “No more cutting them.”  
Bucky scowls, sinking into his seat, and gives Steve a half-hearted swipe with his tail. “Fuck’s sake.”

The jet speeds north, skimming the coastline as they pass Rhode Island and heading out to sea at Boston. Nat pulls on her controls and the jet sweeps upwards into a forming cloud bank. When land is out of sight Bucky sits back with a sigh. “All those people,” he sighs, his voice a barely audible thrum.   
“Don’t start,” Nat says, and Bucky scowls, putting the sole of his boot against the back of her chair.  
He doesn’t sit up when Nova Scotia passes on their left, or Newfoundland on the right, spinning round to look at what Steve is up to as the jet soars over the Labrador Sea.  
“How long ‘til we arrive?” Steve asks, and Bucky shrugs.  
“Couple of hours, give or take.” Bucky reaches up to scratch a horn, but Steve glares at him until he lowers it, scratching his chin instead. Nowhere near as satisfying, damn him. “Why, you getting restless?”  
Steve snorts, glancing over at Wanda, who has her phone out and is playing some kind of game on it again. Pietro is surprisingly quiet, sitting in the pilot seat and listening intently as Nat points out some detail of the controls. The view beyond the window is dense cloud and little else, but that doesn’t dampen the kid's interest.  
“Kid’s learning how to fly,” Bucky explains. “Because he’s not enough trouble on the ground.”

They talk quietly, voices hushed to keep from disturbing Pietro’s lesson and Wanda’s game, until Nat announces that Iceland is coming up and switches places with Pietro. She steers the jet below the thick bank of cloud as the country comes into view ahead. Bucky sits up, leaning his chin on Nat’s chair as they approach.  
“Woah,” Pietro stops fidgeting with the controls. “This place is badly named.”  
Bucky snorts, his lips parted in a silent exclamation. Pietro is right, the land is an endless swathe of colours, from the slate grey shores of the coast to the endless green of the countryside and the city of Reykjavík itself. The houses look like toys, like dollhouses, neatly arranged in blocks and brightly coloured. Walls are painted in rich shades of yellow and green and blue, topped with roofs of red and white.   
There is not a patch of ice to be seen.  
“Where we headed?” Steve asks at Bucky’s shoulder.  
“Gufunes disc golf course.”  
Bucky lets out a loud bark of laughter. “Zombies on a golf course?”  
“What’s disc golf?” Steve asks.  
“No idea,” Nat shrugs, her thoughts turning to the matter at hand. “Support units should already be in place. Site is cleared, so we should have no problems with eyewitnesses. Even so, no running around, no showing off, and definitely-” She gives Bucky a hard stare. “-no setting buildings on fire.”  
Bucky throws up his hands “One time!”  
Nat ignores him, steering the jet over a strip of land close to the coast and bringing it to land beside a white painted clubhouse at the entrance to the course. Pietro follows her through the final checks before she gives the order to disembark, a handful of familiar looking agents gathering outside.

Disc golf is nothing like regular golf, they find. The stretch of land beyond the building, a patchy scrub of meadowgrass and woodland interspersed with chain baskets on poles into which frisbees are thrown.  
“Frisbees,” Pietro wheezes with laughter while the owner of the course frowns at a non-disclosure agreement. “You just throw little plastic frisbees?!”  
The man ignores him in favour of staring at Bucky again, pen held limply in his hand.  
“Helvíti strákur,” he whispers to himself as Bucky paces around, trampling grass under his boots.  
“If you could sign the document,” Nat says with a brittle smile. “We’ll take care of everything.”  
“Can you tell us what happened?” Steve asks, and the man looks to him as if seeing him for the first time.  
“That… that is Helvíti Strákur?” he asks, his eyes wide.  
“No autographs,” Bucky shouts, and he flinches back.  
“Please,” Steve uses a gentle, encouraging tone, his hand on the man’s arm. “Any details, anything unusual? It will help us with our…” Steve glances at Bucky. “Our investigation.”  
“Anything unusual?” The man comes to his senses. “You mean aside from the dead rising?”  
“Yes,” Steve says firmly. “Any strange activity? Any... “ He looks to Bucky for back-up.   
“Any missing animals? Any dismembered or mutilated bodies? Strange lights in the sky, cold spots, nightmares?” Bucky asks, but the man just stares at him. “The moon turning red? Anything?”  
The man shakes himself, then signs Nat’s form in a hurried scrawl before shoving it back at her. “Fix it,” he hisses, and scurries off to the clubhouse, slamming the door behind him.  
Nat checks the form and hands it to one of the support agents. “Okay, we’re moving.”

They split into two groups, Bucky getting saddled with Steve and a pair of agents, Wanda and Pietro going with Nat and that creepy-looking agent, what was his name? Rock? Lock?   
“Here,” Nat hands out earpieces. “Stay in contact. If I don’t hear from you I’ll assume you’re dead, got it?”  
Steve nods, pressing the piece into his ear and motioning for Bucky to do the same.  
“I hate these things,” Bucky grouses. “All those voices chattering away in your ear?”  
“What, you don’t get enough with Luis?” one of the agents asks, the skinny Russian pet project of Nat with an Elvis pompadour. Okay, so Bucky might bitch about Luis now and then, doesn’t mean anyone else gets to do it. Bucky growls at him, upper lip twitching to display his teeth, and the agent turns pale and crosses himself.  
“That’s enough,” Steve intervenes, turning to the agent. “Kurt, right?”  
The agent nods, tilting his head to his partner. “Dave. Please don’t eat us.”  
“Moving out,” Nat calls out. “Red, you take the southside, we’ll go north. Constant contact, remember.”  
Nat had handed Steve a firearm along with his earpiece, and Bucky checks that he still has it. The damn thing is still holstered, so Bucky pulls out the Samaritan, hefting it in his right hand.  
“Stay close,” Bucky warns. “An’ keep your heads up.”

Nat takes her team up the trail, where the grass is mown and the trees few and far between. Bucky takes his group down to the woodland side, the patchy sprawl of trees and scrubs obscuring his sightlines. Each team fans out as they move forward, keeping in sight of each other as they go. In the woods there are wide, stone paths leading through the trees, patches of long grass between them yellow and brittle in the late summer sun.  
The air is mild with a sharp resinous edge, and Bucky breathes deeply, searching for traces of decay and gravedirt. There is nothing on the air but sea spray and green leaves as they move deeper into the woods, and Bucky keeps one eye on Steve, his heart tripping and kicking whenever he disappears from sight and comes back into view.  
In his ear Bucky hears Nat order a call-in, and one by one each agent answers.  
“Twelve?” Steve’s voice is sharp and unexpected in his ear. “Zombies and they sent twelve people?”  
Bucky looks across the dense woodland in search of him, and the idiot still hasn’t got his damned gun out.  
“Small island, low population,” Bucky answers. “Inland there’s natural zombie repellants, volcanoes, hot springs, ice, that kind of thing. If they get past us they won’t go far.”  
“That’s not very comforting, Buck,” Steve mutters, but keeps moving forward.  
“I got your back,” Bucky says, and he means it. Steve offers him a warm smile before vanishing behind a clump of trees.  
He doesn’t reappear.

“Steve?” Bucky taps the earpiece. Damnit, why isn’t Luis here? “Steve?”  
He stops, turning in a slow circle, trying to keep calm. Luis isn’t here because it’s too cold for him, and no one needs a fishicle in deep hibernation.  
“Steve!” Bucky walks over to the last place he saw him, catching sight of what’s-his-face a little further south. “Steve, where the fuck are you?”  
“Over here,” comes the reply.  
Bucky blunders through the trees, still undecided if he’s gonna punch Steve out when he finds him or… or…  
“You need to see this.” Steve steps out from behind a pine tree, and gestures for Bucky to follow him.  
A little way ahead is a clearing, large stones scattered in a corona around an area of disturbed earth. There are several mounds of fresh dirt spaced unevenly around a number of pits dug into the ground.  
“What is-” Kurt comes up to join them, his eyes widening as he takes in the ruination, bare tree roots exposed in the dark earth.  
Bucky jumps into the nearest pit, ignoring the yowl of alarm from Kurt, and crouches down to pick through the dirt.  
“What is it?” Steve asks, going down on one knee at the edge, staring down at Bucky with concern.  
There are fragments of metal, old and rusted until only flakes remain, and stones that must have taken two men to carry.  
“It’s a burial mound,” Bucky rubs the crumbs of rust between his silver thumb and fingers.  
Steve touches the edge of the pit. “If it’s a burial mound, where are the bodies?”  
Kurt screams again, piercing and shrill, and there is a rapid fire of gunshots.

“Aw crap.” Bucky hauls himself out of the grave, coat flying, and charges through the woods after the sound.  
He hears Steve scramble to his feet and yell, but doesn’t slow down. Whatever the fuck Kurt has wandered into, Bucky doesn’t need Steve getting stuck in the middle of it.  
“Buck!” Steve yells just behind him, and Bucky’s head whips around. How the hell did he catch up so fast?  
He thumps into a pine tree, clipping off one of the branches with his shoulder, and shakes himself before moving again. Up ahead Kurt is pointing his gun at a clump of trees, his whole body shaking as he fires off another round.  
The other agent, and Bucky has gotta start remembering their names, staggers into view. His gun is out, his eyes wide and terrified. Kurt fires to the left of him and he doesn’t even notice, hurling himself towards Kurt like a man seeking salvation.  
There are creatures shambling through the trees towards them, and Steve, the goddamn idiot, pushes past him to get to the agents.  
“Woah!” Bucky snaps, grabbing Steve by the waist and hauling him back.  
“Buck!” Steve snaps. “They’re in-”  
He falls silent as the creatures slouch into the clearing, a dozen and more, their movements slow and horribly liquid.  
They were men, once. Men buried beneath mounds of stones, weighed down into the earth. Their bodies are corpse-bloated, distended, purplish-blue skin glimpsed in the rends and tears of their clothing. Their mouths hang open, displaying swollen tongues and broken teeth. Their eye sockets are filled with dirt, pale worms twisting and writhing within.  
Kurt fires again, and the shoulder of the nearest creature burst apart, spraying rotting flesh and brittle bones. The creatures body kicks at the impact, head lolling, but it keeps moving.  
Bucky cocks the Samaritan and takes aim, screwing one eye shut as the creatures lumber forward. He squeezes the trigger and the lead creature’s head explodes, leaving a sticky crater of tissue and bone where the neck should have been. The creature pitches forward, but rights itself and keeps moving.  
“What the fuck?”

“Nat, come in?” Bucky yells into his earpiece, dragging Kurt along by the scruff of his jacket. “Nat, fucking answer!”  
“Call in,” Steve snaps into his own comms, an edge to his voice that makes the other agent with him flinch.  
“Little busy,” Nat crackles over the line, and Bucky sucks in a sharp breath.  
“Fall back, Nat,” he snarls. “Do not engage.”  
“Already engaging!” comes the response, and Bucky curses vehemently.  
“Listen to me, they’re Draugr, you hear?” Bucky keeps hauling Kurt towards the clubhouse. There are doors and locks there and if he can just get everyone inside he can sort this mess out. “ _Revenants_. Bullets ain’t gonna stop ‘em.”  
“Well what else do you suggest?” Nat’s voice is clipped, distracted, and Bucky bursts through the trees into the open parkland.   
He sees her in the distance, the other agent beside her. There’s no sign of the twins.  
“Wanda?” Bucky calls, his heart in his mouth.  
“ _Jsem zaneprázdněn_!”  
Okay, she’s alive. She’s alive and she’s fighting, that’s gotta be good. Bucky shoves Kurt back inland, pointing to the clubhouse. “You guys get inside. Don’t let those things near you, you hear me? Don’t let them touch you, don’t let them scratch you, bite you, anything. You see one you run the other way, understand?” Kurt and his partner nod dumbly, and Bucky taps his earpiece. “You too, Nat. Get everyone inside. And Pietro? _Odcházet_.”

Bucky strides across the grass, gun up and taking aim as Nat and the agent retreat, several Draugr in pursuit. He searches the scrubs, but can’t see the twins.  
“How do we stop them?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s finger twitches on the trigger. He spins around, dropping his gun because there’s the idiot again. Not running away, not hiding like he’s supposed to. _Gods-fucking-damnit_.  
“I told you to go with the other guys!” Bucky waves his gun towards the clubhouse, Nat backing towards it with the agent on her six.  
Steve squares his shoulders, putting his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, and for a moment looks as solid and immutable as a glacial shelf. Bucky knows when to cut his losses, and goes back to looking for the twins.  
“Stay behind me, watch my back. Don’t let them get their hands on you.”  
Steve does as he’s asked, at least. “I won’t. How do we stop them?”  
“You’re not gonna do anything,” Bucky hisses. “Leave it to the professionals.”  
Steve ignores that. “Why can’t they touch you? Do they transfer-”  
“Because they crush, okay?” Bucky watches the creatures heaving their vast bulks around the grass, a few breaking off to follow Nat, but the rest remaining. “I know you got a thick skull, Rogers, but they’ll crack it open like a cantaloupe. Get too close and they’ll put you under the influence.”  
“The what?”  
“The influence.” There’s something in the long grass. Something moving fast towards them. “Get their teeth or claws in you. Get into your subconscious, wreck up your dreams. Make you…” He waves his gun in a circle. “Susceptible to suggestion. Which is why you’re supposed to be running away, you idiot.”  
A blurred shape bursts out of the grass, and Steve fumbles for his gun, too slow as it barrels into Bucky, a bundle of arms and legs and grey hair, almost knocking him down.

“Ooof,” Bucky wheezes, pulling the tangle of bodies closer. “You kids okay?”  
Pietro shakes himself off, disentangling himself from Bucky’s embrace and twirling Steve’s gun around on his index finger. “Anyone looking for this?”  
“What?” Steve’s mouth drops open as Wanda brushes her hair out of her eyes, tucked safely under Bucky’s coat. “How did you…”  
“He’s fast,” Bucky tilts his chin at Pietro. “Give it back, kid.”  
“He was pointing it at me.”  
Pietro makes to throw the gun, but Steve looks about to pitch a fit, so he hands it over carefully. “We got ambushed, maybe sixteen, twenty? I did what you said, picked her up and bolted.”  
He’s not even panting for breath, and Bucky ruffles his hair fondly. Wanda punches Bucky’s stomach, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make him wheeze.  
“ _Hloupý_ ,” she hisses. “ _Zbabělý_ -”  
“I ain’t gonna apologise,” Bucky says flatly, and she punches him again.  
Steve is still staring at Pietro, who is preening at the attention. But he doesn’t ask where Wanda’s talents lie, he’ll find out soon enough.  
“You guys remember that movie we watched? The one in black and white?” Bucky asks.  
“Beat ‘em or burn ‘em, they go up pretty easy?” Pietro asks.  
Bucky cocks his gun. “You know it.”

They cross the grass in a ragged line, Bucky in the lead and Pietro at the rear, zipping back and forth in a blur as he checks that nothing is sneaking up on them.  
“These… these draug?” Steve asks hesitantly.  
“Draugr.” Bucky swipes at him with his tail whenever Steve comes too close to the front, and Steve smacks it away each time.  
“Keep back, dumbass,” Bucky hisses.  
“They’re from those pits, aren’t they? From those grave mounds.” Steve asks, and Bucky gives him a single, terse nod. “Who dug them up? Why?”  
He has no answer to that, so shrugs. There is a patch of woodland ahead, and he skirts them around it, breathing in deeply as if he could catch a scent of decay on the air.  
“Anything?” he calls to Pietro.  
“Nothing back here,” comes the response. “Where the hell did they go?”  
Bucky chews on his lip, scanning the horizon. There is nothing but rocky coastline away from the clubhouse, and nowhere for the Draugr to go.   
_What am I missing_?  
“Red?” Nat’s voice is hesitant in his ear. “Call in?”  
“Nothing to report,” Bucky says, holstering the Samaritan. “Looks clear.”

The ground beneath their feet shudders, and Wanda lets out a sharp gasp, grabbing onto Steve’s arm for balance.  
“What was-”  
The scrubby grass trembles, as if stirred by an unseen wind, and ground erupts in a spray of earth and stone, showering them with debris. Bucky swears, grabbing Wanda with one hand and Steve with the other, pulling them back as the grass swells and undulates the sea in a storm.  
“Earthquake!” Pietro yells, and Bucky looks over his shoulder. They’re surrounded, clumps of dirt and loose stones launching into the air in a narrowing circle around them. A swollen, bluish hand punches through the soil at Bucky’s feet, and he stamps on it, crushing it under his heel.  
“They’re underground!” Bucky yells. “The fuckers are right underneath us!”  
Another Draugr hand forces through the grass, digging its bruised fingers into the dirt and dragging itself out into the open. Another. Another, piling on top of each other as they claw their way out of the earth.  
Bucky pulls out the Samaritan and fires.  
The first Draugr’s head explodes, showering the ones around it in rotting flesh and brain matter, and still they keep coming. He hears an erratic _pop pop_ at his side, and realises that Steve is shooting at the creatures, but no matter how many rounds he aims at them, they have no effect. Steve swears, taking hold of his gun by the barrel, and strikes the skull of the Draugr reaching for him, caving in it’s skull.

Bucky’s bullets are a little more effective, blasting huge chunks out of the creatures as they lunge forward, and he catches a glimpse of Pietro speeding past, using a length of chain grabbed from someplace and wrapping it around a monstrous creatures neck. A sharp tug separates its head from its body, and he moves on to the next.  
Wanda presses herself up close to Bucky’s side, staring at the melee, her fingers twisting in the folds of his coat.  
“Wanda?” he asks, it ain’t fair on a kid but he has to ask, but she shakes her head.  
“There’s too many, I don’t know if I-” She shakes her head again, tears welling in her eyes.  
Steve is holding them back any way he can; his fists, his feet, the butt of his useless gun. Striking and retreating like a serpent, his eyes roaming ceaselessly between the attacking hoards and Wanda, her back pressed to Bucky’s side.  
“Salt!” Bucky yells, and Steve catches his meaning, pulling the box out of his pocket and spraying it on the creatures. The ones with mouths scream, a high ululation that sets Bucky’s teeth on edge.  
“Wanda?” Bucky swipes at a Draugr with his silver hand, taking it’s head clean off its body. “Darlin’, you gotta try.”  
Wanda shudders, and a Draugr lunges towards her. Bucky catches it by the throat, dodging the creatures grasping hands, its scrabbling fingernails cracked and blackened.

Steve lets out a yell and goes down, a pair of Draugr piling on top of him. He kicks as hard as he can, shoving the heel of his hand into the swollen mass of a creature’s face, pushing until there is an audible crack. Pietro grabs one of the others crawling over him by the ankle and pulls, letting out a yelp of alarm when the foot comes off and he stumbles back into another.  
“Wanda!” Bucky yells, breaking away from her to kick one of the creatures away from Steve, but she is already walking forward, her hands raised. Pietro lets out a warning cry and scrambles back, clambering over the Draugr faster than they can grab, moving to a safe distance where she can see him.  
Bucky grabs Steve under the arms and hauls him out from the pile of grasping, clawing creatures. There’s nowhere to go that isn’t filled with Draugr, so Bucky pulls Steve close, shielding him with his body.  
“Close your eyes,” Bucky hisses, seeing them widen as red flames lick across Wanda’s fingers and flow up her arms. He clamps his red hand over Steve’s eyes and yells to her. “Now!”  
Steve kicks once, an instinctive struggle, before burrowing into Bucky’s arms. The grass catches light, flames flowing across the Draugr like water, and the air fills with the stench of charred flesh.  
The flames rise up against Bucky and Steve like hawk cupping its wings, fanning around them but not touching them, leaping high in the air to roll around them before crashing back down onto the bodies of Draugr, shrieking and twisting as the flames eat through them.

When the howls subside, when the air feels cold on his skin, Bucky raises his head.  
Steve is clinging to his arm, fingers wrapped tightly around his bicep. Bucky’s skin glows with heat absorbed from the fire, and for a second he stares at the way Steve grips at him, untroubled by the heat.  
Wanda utters a low moan, on her knees in the dirt. Pietro is curled around her as she shakes and whimpers, and Bucky staggers to his feet. He stomps through the mounds of bodies, fragile shells of ash and carbon that crumple to powder under his boots, and scoops her up into his arms.  
“You did it,” he tells her as she throws her arms around him. “Baby girl, I’m so proud of you.”  
She sniffs, rubbing her face against his chest. “I was scared.”  
“Yeah, you were,” Bucky agrees. “And you did it anyway. You know what the stories about Draugr say? They can only be defeated by courage.”  
“Really?” Wanda asks as he sets her down on the charred dirt.  
“Yeah.” Bucky twitches his shoulder up. “I mean mostly it’s cutting off their heads and burning the bodies, but-”  
Wanda lets out an outraged sound, and smacks Bucky’s shoulder. “ _Kretén_ ,” she yells. “Big red monkey.”  
Bucky sniggers, tapping at his earpiece. “We’re all clear, Nat.”   
He glances over at Steve, who is on his feet and dusting himself off. He looks unharmed, the palms of his hands unblemished. Around then the stand of pine trees are blackened stumps, the mounds of ashes on the ground stirred by the sea breezes.  
“Clean up is gonna be a bitch.”

Nat and the owner - pale-faced and staring at Wanda this time - are waiting for them at the entrance to the clubhouse. Before anyone can give him a lecture about destruction of property Bucky takes the twins inside and raids the bar fridge for bottles of coke. He hears Steve muttering to Nat, trying to reassure her as he sits the twins down on barstools and cracks open each bottle, setting them out on the counter. Steve joins them a minute later, looking a little rattled, but he takes the seat next to Wanda without hesitation and checks up on her, so Bucky pops open a beer for him too. For once Steve doesn’t complain about theft, and takes the bottle with a murmured thanks.   
There is a sink behind the bar so Bucky washes the gunk off his hands, scrubbing the worst of it from the seams of his silver arm. He soaks a bar towel and throws it over so Steve can wipe himself off, and helps himself to a few measures of whiskey.  
By the time Nat arrives, looking harried, they’re pretty much cleaned up, and Pietro is on his third bottle of coke. She takes one look at Bucky behind the bar, towel thrown over his shoulder, and sits down heavily on a stool.  
“Fuck my life,” she says emphatically, and Bucky pours her a shot of Grey Goose.

There’s a tightness in Bucky’s shoulders, like he’s a wound up spring straining to be let loose.   
They’re alive. They’re alive and the problem’s been dealt with, and it’s thanks to fifteen year old girl who should by rights be spending her time flirting with boys and going to the mall.  
Not that Bucky would allow any boy who tried it on with her to keep his thumbs.  
“Has he threatened to sue you yet?” Bucky asks, pouring himself another measure.  
Nat shakes her head. “Insurance will take care of it. American tourist started a camp fire, wind set it out of control.”  
“Plausible,” Steve agrees, nursing his second bottle of beer. Nat downs the rest of her vodka and holds the glass out for more.  
Bucky refills it, the itch under his skin building with every mouthful of whisky instead of abating.  
He scratches behind his ear, watching Steve’s hands around his beer, fingers playing with a curling edge of label. Watching his lips, full and pink, part as he drinks from the bottle, the slight trickle of foam that escapes the seal of his mouth as he swallows.  
They’re exhausted, adrenaline still shimmering through their systems, and it would be unfair to take advantage of their distracted state.  
Unfair, but that’s not gonna stop him.

There is no traffic as Bucky jogs across the dual carriageway. Unlike the cheek-to-jowl chaos of New York, Reykjavik is full of wide open spaces and long stretches of grassy verges, and as much as Bucky might like winding up Coulson, he’s not inclined to get caught.   
He heads away from the golf course and towards an industrial estate, neat blocks of warehouses with white walls and red roofs. There are a few cars parked up, but no people milling about. He takes in a deep breath of air, cold and clean.  
“Bucky!”  
 _Steve_. Bucky glances back across the dual carriageway, and sees him standing on the grass verge. Well that didn’t take long.  
“Bucky,” Steve sees him looking back, and beckons him to cross over. “Come on, we’re leaving.”  
He doesn’t listen, his grin white-toothed and wide as he takes off at a run, laughing at the sound of Steve yelling after him.

There’s no gains to be had in running around the car parks, too many chances of being spotted and not much fun. Bucky jumps onto the roof of a car, the frame crumpling under his weight and the windows shattering, and he launches himself up. His coat flaps in the wind as he slams into the side of building, tail windmilling as he manages to grab a purchase and haul himself up on to the roof. He spins around on his heel, looking around until he sees Steve crossing the road after him. Bucky waits until he’s close enough to see, then gives him the finger before taking off again.  
Steve runs along the car park below, and Bucky can’t help but look over his shoulder to see if he’s keeping up, maybe slow down a little for him, let him think he has a shot at catching up. But there he is, keeping pace.  
 _Huh_.  
Heat burns through Bucky’s veins, a phospherencense flare brighter than sunlight as he comes to the edge of the roof. Steve is already there, sly little bastard, waiting for Bucky to climb down. The next warehouse is maybe fifteen feet away, and Bucky makes the jump easily, landing with a roll. He can make out the sound of Steve swearing below, and throws back his head and laughs.  
The joke is cut short when he hears a scrabbling sound, like a rat climbing a gutter, and walks over to the edge to investigate. Steve must have climbed onto one of the cars and jumped up, grabbing hold of a window ledge and hauling himself up. He has one hand on the guttering, and the sly little shit is pulling himself up, feet braced against the wall. Bucky has to admit he’s impressed, impressed enough to not kick down the gutter and send him crashing to the ground. He saunters across the roof, his boots rattling the corrugated iron, and figures out where to go next.

“Bucky,” Steve rasps, hauling himself up. He doesn’t roll onto his back and gasp for breath, no. The sonofabitch just stands there, hands loosely by his side. “Come on, this is enough.”  
Bucky twitches his chin up. “How fast can you run?”  
“What?” Steve seems to give up on reasoning with Bucky and starts walking towards him, his footsteps light on the steel roof.  
“I bet you ain’t taken that new body of yours for a real workout yet.” Bucky’s gaze cuts to the next warehouse along, a good twenty foot jump from roof to roof.  
“Bucky, come on,” Steve keeps moving towards him. “You’ll only get grounded.”  
“Whaddya say, Rogers?” Bucky shifts his weight, ready to move. “How fast can you run?”  
He doesn’t give Steve a chance to respond, spinning on his heel and making for the ledge at full tilt. He launches himself into the air, kicking out his feet, and lands heavily on the next building, the roof crumpling under the impact. He scrambles forward, half skipping, half falling, and spins around to yell at Steve some more, just in time to see him take the jump.  
Steve lands on one shoulder, tucking in and rolling before righting himself. Bucky lets out a roar of laughter and turns, looking for where to go next.

Time seems to warp and shift around them. It could be seconds, it could be hours they spend racing across the rooftops, Bucky pausing long enough to yell encouragement or throw out insults as they pitch themselves from building to building in their game of chase.  
Steve refuses to tire, no matter where Bucky leads him; down to the road again and racing through the narrow paths of a cemetery, before turning them around and heading back to the estate. His frustrated yells becomes coughs of laughter as the race draws on.  
“C’mon, Steve!” Bucky shouts, scrambling onto a flat, low roof when he starts to lag behind. “Don’t tell me you’re getting tired, now?”  
Steve saves his breath, clambering onto the roof and letting out a triumphant shout when Bucky stumbles.  
He escapes Steve’s grasp by a hair’s breadth, but Steve has tasted victory and lunges for him again. Bucky ducks, rolling to one side, and pitches himself off the building.  
He lands on his feet, knees bent to absorb the shock, but if it hurts he doesn’t feel it. He can’t breathe for laughing, his chest burning, and Steve is laughing with him as he drops down onto the ground. Great, heaving gales of laughter that nearly knock him off his feet.  
Bucky straightens up, and can’t take his eyes off Steve as he presses a hand to his chest, as if he could hold his heart in place. His eyes are so bright, his lips parted around gasps of air, and Bucky wants to kiss him.  
Steve looks at him, eyes shining, and Bucky can’t seem to stop himself, moving as if propelled by an unseen hand until they are standing face to face.  
“Bucky?” Steve asks, his expression so open, so trusting, and whatever else he might have said is lost when Bucky leans close and kisses him.

It’s barely a touch at first, a breath against Steve’s lips, hands clasped at his side. Bucky reels back before Steve has a chance to react, his idiot heart screaming at it him to run while his feet are made of clay. Steve tilts towards him, hands cupping the sides of Bucky’s face, fingers pale against the darkening red of his cheekbones. He doesn’t burn at the heat of Bucky’s body.  
It should not be possible to kiss when you’re laughing, but Steve manages, his lips parted, his mouth turned up as he draws Bucky towards him. The tip of his nose brushes Bucky’s cheek, light and teasing, a lit match to a powder keg.  
Bucky slams him against the wall, hard enough to make the bricks crack and crumble, and Steve moans, low and wrecked as Bucky crushes their mouths together.  
He is warm and welcoming as Bucky pushes his tongue between his teeth, desperate and relentless, and every push and press of Bucky’s is met with equal fervour. Steve kisses like a man starved, ravenous and joyful in taking his fill, and Bucky offers up everything he has.  
It’s addictive, euphoric, the wanting and being wanted. Bucky’s hands curl against the crumbling bricks, silver fingers digging into the mortar for purchase as Steve licks into his mouth. Bucky pushes his knee between Steve’s thighs, rough and impatient as he grinds his thickening cock against his hip. Steve groans, breath hot in Bucky’s throat, twisting a thick hank of Bucky’s hair in one hand as the other slips under his coat, palm cool and damp against Bucky’s bare skin. Steve grips him tightly, fingers working their way under the leather of his pants and digging into the firm muscle of his ass, keeping him in place. As if Bucky might suddenly cease in his onslaught, as if he might vanish into the aether.  
A laugh winds its way up Bucky’s throat. As if that were possible, that Bucky could finally have his mouth on Steve’s, sweet and reckless, and want to spend a second of existence anywhere else.

Steve lets out an involuntary whine when they finally break apart, tugging at Bucky’s hair in admonishment. Bucky rains kisses down on every sliver of skin his mouth can seek out. The hard line of Steve’s jaw, the straining tendons of his throat, the sharp jut of his collarbone. Venturing further down, his hands braced against the fractured wall as he drops to his knees, graceless as a stone.  
“Bucky,” Steve rasps, his voice a ruin, and Bucky noses at the exposed strip of skin at his belt where his shirt has ridden up. He licks the salt from Steve’s skin, feels the shape of bone underneath and rests unsteady hands on Steve’s hip.  
Steve’s hands find their way into Bucky’s hair, pushing back the strands that have fallen across his face and smoothing them back. “Bucky,” he whispers again, low and reverent.  
Bucky presses his cheek to the placket of Steve’s pants, feels the hard, hot line of his cock trapped underneath and puts his mouth to it.  
He opens his jaws wide, curling his lips over his teeth as he mouths at Steve length, cloth rough against his tongue. Steve moans, low and startled, and pushes into Bucky’s touch, grip on his hair tightening as Bucky swipes his head back and forth, the pressure too much and not enough.  
Bucky reaches for the button of Steve’s fly, flicking it open with his thumb and pulling down the zip. There is no teasing, no slow build of tension as he opens up the flaps to reveal plain black briefs drawn tightly over his cock. Bucky’s attentions have dampened the thin cotton, moulding it to his shape, and Bucky drags his tongue over the extent of him, lingering over the prominent crown.  
“Christ, you feel good,” Steve sighs, and Bucky grabs the waistband of his pants, pulling them down to the top of his thighs.  
Bucky takes his time, savouring the sharp musk of Steve’s body, the silk of his skin. His fingers, silver and red, follow the crest of his pelvis, the line of his hip where the skin is honey and cream, and the bloody tissue of a fresh wound.  
 _Wait a minute_.

Bucky sits up straight, and Steve makes a broken little sound, tugging on his hair a little. Bucky takes hold of his wrists, pressing a kiss to each one, the tendons criss-crossed with blue veins, before pulling himself free.  
“Bucky?” Steve asks, his tone fogged and uncertain.  
Bucky runs his fingers along Steve’s hips, no longer light and sensual but firm and thorough. There had been something there, something to pierce through the haze of desire and knock sense into him.  
There. A patch of skin below Steve’s kidney, hidden from sight, a smear of blood on a silver finger. Puncture marks, already scabbed over. A bite.  
Bucky sits back on his heels, pushing away the hands trying to grasp his shoulders. _Of course_. How could he have been so blind, so fucking stupid?   
“What’s going on?” Steve asks, and there is a wounded tilt to his mouth that would hurt if Bucky kept looking at it.  
“You got bit,” Bucky says gruffly, hauling himself to his feet.  
“I… what?” Steve says dumbly, and Bucky gestures to his side, hardly able to meet his eye.  
Steve pats at his hip, his movements clumsy with his stiff prick and his pants pulled down. He finds the bite quickly, frowning as he palpates the reddened area surrounding it. “It’s not serious,” he says, as if that was all Bucky had to freak out over. “I’ll get a course of antibiotics from Dr Banner, it’ll be fine.”  
Bucky shakes his head, still keeping himself angled away. “What did I tell you? What was the first damn thing I told you about Draugr?”  
“Don’t let them touch you.”  
Bucky glances at him, still checking the bite. His lips are dark from Bucky’s mouth, longs strands of black hair caught in his fingers. “What else?”

The penny seems to drop. Steve’s shoulders tense, his hands still. “Don’t let them bite you.”  
“It makes you suggestable,” Bucky says slowly. “Easily coerced.”  
“I know my own mind,” Steve says sharply. He pulls up his pants and fastens his fly, his movements tense and agitated. “I’m not under any kind of influence.”  
“I made the first move,” Bucky points out, and it’s easier to see Steve mad at him that hurting. “You seriously telling me the thought of you an’ me…” Bucky swallows. “Ever crossed your mind before now.”  
“That’s not the point,” Steve says quietly, and it’s answer enough.  
“Fuck.” Bucky scrubs his hands over his face. They still smell like him. His mouth still tastes of him and Bucky’s stomach churns at the thought of what almost happened.  
It wasn’t real. Of course it wasn’t real.   
Steve tugs down his t-shirt, trying to cover the damp patch on his pants, and when he fails he crosses his arms over his chest.   
“We should get back to base.” There is a tremor in his voice, and he clears his throat. “Get you checked over by the doc.”  
“Yeah,” Steve mutters, and starts walking. He doesn’t check that Bucky is following.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jsi můj miláček - You’re my sweetheart  
> helvíti strákur - Hell Guy  
> Jsem zaneprázdněn - I’m busy  
> Hloupý, Zbabělý - stupid, cowardly


	5. Coffee Cups, Promises, and Other Broken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have spent my academic life studying the Einstein-Rosen Bridge, I believe the Bifrost is an ancient example of one.”  
> “A what-what now?” Luis frowns.  
> “Wormhole,” Bucky explains. “Porthole to other dimensions an’ all that Star Trek crap.”  
> “There were numerous methods of summoning this bridge,” Selvig ignores him. “And accessing the other realms. The hammer Mjolnir, or constructing a Naglfar, a ship made of dead men’s nails to carry you from Muspell-”  
> “Wait, what?” Luis grimaces. “Like toenails?”  
> “I believe that it is possible to travel between these realms,” Selvig continues. “That in these ancient texts there is a key.”  
> “That’s a lot of toenails,” Luis mutters. “How do you stick ‘em all together?”

If someone had told Steve a week ago that he would miss grounded Bucky - bored, cranky and prone to tripping Steve up with his tail - Steve would have laughed them out of the room.  
It’s not that he misses the games of find the half-eaten plate of mac and cheese or piles of tamale wrappers, or falling on his ass when Bucky’s tail winds around his ankle. But at least Bucky laughed.  
Hell, Steve could handle Bucky being an asshole. After a whole life being treated like he was frail or sickly, he thrived on being taunted into pushing himself; run a little faster, jump a little further, keep going for a little longer.  
But Bucky wasn’t being an asshole, he was… polite.  
It needled at Steve, worked its way under his skin, an itch he couldn’t scratch. The one mission they’d been on since Reykjavík (which had turned out to be a false alarm) Bucky had followed orders, cleared the building and gone right back to the van. No threats, no nagging, he just did the job and went back to the Zoo, quiet as a fucking mouse. Since then he’d kept to his room, though the door was unlocked, reading books and listening to the teeth-grating industrial noise that passed for music at a volume Steve couldn’t shout over.  
Of course Coulson was thrilled. Bucky was behaving and he didn’t have to keep going on local news to denounce his existence all the time, and seemed happy to put it all down to Steve.  
And maybe that was true, but Steve hates it.  
Bucky doesn’t talk about what happened, and Steve would sooner pull out his teeth than start that conversation. He’s pretty sure that Luis would never poke through his thoughts uninvited, but he avoids the library anyway. Along with the rest of the Zoo.

“Hey, Rogers?” Nat’s sharp voice pulls Steve from his circling thoughts.  
He’s spent half the morning in the staff canteen, supposedly to read through a copy of the employee code of conduct he’d gotten from Coulson, but mostly he’s staring into his coffee like it has the answers to all his problems.  
The coffee is better in the Zoo.  
“Hey, Nat.” Steve lifts his cup in greeting, but decides against taking a drink.  
“You busy?” Nat takes the seat across from him, drinking from her own cup of coffee, her Soviet constitution no doubt immune to ulcers. “I got an hour free if you want to get some target practice in.”  
Steve nods, pushing the document to one side.  
He’s seen a lot more of Nat of late, after the debacle in Reykjavík she’d pushed to get him upgraded from nanny to field agent. Being a nurse was something he’d fallen into, a way of doing some good in a world that saw his thin frame and catalogue of health issues and found him worthless. Now all those closed doors are starting to open up to him, and it kind of pisses him off.  
But a change of careers would solve half his problems right now. It gives him an excuse to get out of the Zoo while he’s putting hours in on target practice at the range down in the lower levels, and running assault courses topside. There were miles of woodland paths to race around, and no end of guilt to be had about how much Bucky would love running them with him.

Nat takes advantage of Steve’s woolgathering to snag his papers. “These the new in-house security revisions? Barton was bitching about them earlier.”  
Steve shakes his head, letting her flick through the pages anyway. He’d received the security updates from Coulson, and five minutes later wound up in a shouting match in his office before Erskine intervened.  
He has no idea why Nat would care either way. In-house protocol doesn’t really affect her work, but she likes to know what other people are up to. Steve wonders vaguely if she’s a spy, like La femme Nikita, but Russian and more likely to break your fingers than seduce you.  
“So what’s got you reading this?” Nat flicks through the code of conduct; twenty six pages, bound and colour-coded. It falls open to the page Steve had been mulling over: Personal Relationships. “You on the market, Rogers?”  
Steve tugs the document out of her hands and closes it, setting his cup of coffee on top for good measure. He doesn’t answer, but the flush forming on his cheeks gives enough away.  
“Who?” Nat leans forward, an almost venomous look in her eyes. “Because if you’ve got your sights on Wanda-”  
“Jesus Christ, Nat!” Steve yelps. “She’s _fifteen_.”  
“She told you that?” Nat sits back, looking mollified. “Okay, who is it?”  
“Drop it,” Steve folds his arms on the table. “It’s nothing.” She stares at him, unblinking. Definitely a spy. Steve gives the code of conduct a nudge. “What is the policy on inter-staff relationships? This thing is all doublespeak.”  
Nat stops the teasing instantly. “Officially? It’s not encouraged, but you won’t lose your job over it. You have to declare the relationship to your supervisor.”  
Steve swallows around the lump in his throat. That’s not a conversation he’s in a hurry to take up with Erskine.  
“Unofficially?” Nat adds. “You’ll get passed over for promotion, your priorities get called into question, and sometimes there will be a staff reshuffle or budgeting issues and they’ll decide to let you go.”  
Steve purses his lips. “All a coincidence?”  
“Uncanny,” Nat agrees.

Steve slumps back in his seat, and gives the document and his tepid, awful coffee a dour look.  
“So the security update,” Nat offers a change of subject. “At least Coulson dropped the microchipping plan?”  
“It was barbaric,” Steve snaps, frustration and anger and something he has no intention of naming flaring up in his chest. “They’re _people_ , Nat! Not a pack of strays.”  
“Yeah, I heard you had it out with Coulson.” She grins into her coffee, and gives Steve a pat on the arm when he bristles. “You did good, Rogers. Simmer down.”  
Steve bites his lip. “Thanks.”  
Bucky’s bad mood must be rubbing off… no, bad choice of words. Bad. Must be having an effect on him. Making him cranky and sullen. Steve has always been quick to anger, his Ma despairing every time he came home with a black eye or a busted lip. The only difference now was he had the bulk to back up his ire. Unfortunately no one had seen fit to inform his brain that he was no longer a scrawny little punk, and he still waded into battle expecting to get knocked on his ass.  
Hence the shitstorm in Iceland, where instead of backing off and letting the others take care of it he’d charged in with both fists and nearly gotten himself killed.  
He’d do it again, given half a chance, that was the worst part. He’d roll up his sleeves and do his part, because it shouldn’t fall onto the shoulders of a fifteen year old girl.  
He is about to kick back his chair and suggest they get going when the red light in the ceiling starts flicking on and off.  
Nat looks up. “Raincheck?”  
“Looks like it.” Steve scrapes together his papers. “See you out there.”

He walks through the winding maze of tunnels down to the Zoo, only having to backtrack to a missed turn once or twice. He doesn’t go down to Bucky’s room, instead going straight for the library.  
There is no sign of Erskine when he arrives, just books piled up on the chairs. There is a music stand in front of the tank, an old journal spread open on it, silver clips holding the brittle pages in place.  
“Professor?” Steve calls warily, peering into the archive rooms offshooting from the library in case he’s wandered into the stacks. “Hello?”  
Luis thumps against the glass of his tank, and Steve bites down on a yelp.  
“Hey brah, long time no see.” Luis’ voice skitters through Steve’s thoughts. “Can you do me a solid and turn the page? Abe’s gone off to see what the kerfuffle is, and your boy Luis needs a helping hand. I’d climb out and turn it myself, but wet hands - old manuscript - sad professor, you know what I’m saying?”  
Steve walks over to the tank, and Luis swims into view, a shimmer of caramel scales in the murk and a wide smile.  
“Hey Luis,” Steve can’t help but smile. “Sorry, Nat’s been on me to get my forty hours at the range.”  
“Yeah, I heard you’re getting promoted.” Luis circles in his tank, powerful tail flicking from side to side. “That’s great, man.”  
“It’s not a promotion.” Steve carefully lifts the clips on the stand and turns the page. He cannot read the language it’s written in, but his eyes are drawn to an illustration on one side of a full moon painted in ochre and crimson. “Just don’t wanna get caught out again.”  
“Yeah, I get that.” Luis sinks to the bottom of his tank, pressing his face to the glass as he takes in the strange glyphs. “Oh, this is hinky.”  
“What is it?” Steve can’t stop looking at the blood-drenched moon, it’s mottled surface like a face in agony.  
“Blood moon.” Luis gestures for him to turn the page. “Y’know, a lunar eclipse? Moon passes through the center of the earth’s shadow?”

Steve has seen an eclipse before, he’d been in Indonesia a few years back, dealing with the aftermath of flooding, and there had been a solar eclipse. In minutes the day had turned to twilight, and all the birds fell silent. Even the incessant drone of insects had quieted, and the world had turned cold. They had all stopped what they were doing and stumbled outside, staring up at the sky as the sun was eaten away by darkness. Steve had shuddered as the last trace of sunlight flared up at the edge of the dark star, a diamond of light, and felt the shimmering edge of something vast and unknowable and too much to endure.  
Then the light came creeping back, inch by inch, and the birds sang a new sunrise.  
“I thought it got dark during eclipses,” Steve says, a ghost of that sensation passing through him.  
“Rayleigh scattering,” Luis says, gesturing for Steve to turn the page. “The light from the sun kinda dances around the earth, leans into the atmosphere and moseys back out again, cha-cha-cha!” Luis swings his hips from side to side, his tail whipping back and forth. “Atmospheric conditions fuck with the light spectrum and boom! Blood moon.”  
Steve waits for Luis to finish reading before turning another page. “So is this the job?”  
Luis shakes his head. “Nah, man. This thing ain’t happening for like a month. Just wanted to see if it was a family thing.”  
Steve pauses. Luis has never spoken about his family, and to be honest Steve didn’t even think he had one. Were there more people like him in the lost lakes of Mexico? On the heels of that comes a worried thought. _Does he want to go back_?  
“Luis?” Steve asks carefully. “Are your family… are they still around?”  
“Nah, not so much,” Luis says with his usual cheer. “My Momma still ain’t talking to me since the whole fifth sun business. Brother neither, but that’s cool, each to their own, y’know?”

Steve is saved from any further details by the door opening and Erskine coming into the library, Bucky at his heels.  
“Steven!” Erskine smiles warmly. “It’s good to see you.”  
Bucky gives Steve a terse nod before wandering over to see what Luis is reading, and Steve has to force himself to stay put. Bucky hums at the book before glancing up at Luis. “Xquic?” he asks, it comes out as _sh-keek._  
“Nah, don’t look like it.” Luis shrugs. “Just wind an’ weather, you get me?”  
Bucky nods, though the next thing he says is not for Luis’ ears. “Spriggan in an antique store in Paramus. Shouldn’t be a problem, so if you felt like sitting this one out I can send the twins.”  
He doesn’t look up from the book, or tilt his head towards Steve, his silver hand resting on the stand. There is a new decoration wrapped around his wrist, a loop of braided cord interwoven with strands of white and russet hairs.  
“I’m good to go,” Steve tries not to sound defensive. “Whenever you’re ready.”  
Bucky nods, dragging his teeth over his lower lip. “Alright.” His voice is low and muted, but there is a softness there. “I gotta get my shit together, meet you here in ten.”  
Steve nods, and Bucky heads off to his room to get kitted up. Erskine follows him, pausing at the door to give Steve a searching look.

“Dude!” Luis yells as soon as they’re gone. “Dude, what the hell was that?”  
Steve looks around the room, confused. “What?”  
“That!” Luis taps a webbed finger on the glass, gesturing the way Bucky and Erskine had gone. “Holy shit, talk about a psychic blast, I think you guys gave me a migraine.” He rubs at the bridge of his vestigial nose, his branchial gills pulsing anxiously.  
“What?” Steve’s heart sinks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
Luis’ mouth draws into a thin, wide line. “Don’t play me, man. What’s going on? Because you two are just, like, radiating down-to-fuck vibes.”  
“Jesus Christ, Luis!” Steve yelps, a blush flaring up his throat and across his cheeks. “What the hell? I told you never to go poking around in my head.”  
“Hey, don’t go blaming Luis, I ain’t walking around with a psychic air-raid siren blasting how I’m…” Luis’ scales turn pale, then flush toffee coloured at his throat and gills. “Oh. Oh man, it ain’t lust, is it? You already-”  
“Luis, _please_ ,” Steve hisses, and Luis’ wide broad snaps shut. “It was a mistake, okay?”  
Luis’ upper lip twists. “You tell him that?”  
Steve shakes his head. “It was a mutual agreement.”  
Luis scowls, sinking back into the murky depths of his tank. “Sure it was.”

Steve goes to his room to dump his papers and change his shirt. He can’t bring himself to go back to the library just yet, so waits down by the junction for Bucky to find him.  
It doesn’t take long, and soon Bucky is storming down the tunnel to meet him, Samaritan holstered at his hip.  
“You know what a Spriggan is?” Bucky asks, not even breaking his stride.  
Steve has to hurry to catch up with him. “No.”  
“Assholes,” Bucky says bluntly, leading the way. “Little guys, but they can get pretty big, so watch out for that.” He comes to an abrupt halt when they reach a security checkpoint. Steve swipes his pass over the keypad and they keep moving. “I take it you’re not gonna step back and let me take care of things?”  
“You tell me,” Steve says flatly.  
“Eh, your funeral.” Bucky waits for him to let them through the final checkpoint, and out to the garage where Nat is waiting in the van. “Take off your shirt.”  
“What?” Steve hisses, glaring at him.  
He grins back, not quite the swagger and tease of before, but it’s something. “Turning your clothes inside out really upsets them.”  
Bucky opens his coat to reveal his black t-shirt underneath, the seams showing. “Don’t worry about doing your pants.”  
Steve mutters under his breath, but strips off his shirt, shaking it inside out before pulling it on again. From the open back of the van Nat wolf-whistles, and Steve ducks his head, cheeks staining pink.  
Once in the van Bucky falls silent, draping himself across one of the benches and folding his arms over his chest. He closes his eyes, feigning sleep. Steve lets him.

The assignment is in a poky little place that calls itself an antique store but looks more like a pawn shop.  
The owner, a twitchy little guy with thinning hair and a bad attitude, lets out a shriek when Bucky walks in.  
Steve winces on his behalf, but takes the man by the arm, leading him to a broom closet sized office out back with Nat while Bucky takes a look around.  
The office is cramped and cluttered; a desk littered with receipts and an open sales book, a chair and a safe.  
“Mr…” Steve gives him an expectant look. A very tall, very muscular expectant look.  
“Sitwell,” the man answers, smoothing down his tie. “What is-”  
There is a loud crash from within the store and a thin, piercing shriek that doesn’t sound human. Steve winces as the sound doesn’t peter out, building instead into a crescendo.  
“Hey!” Sitwell shouts, and makes a move towards the storefront.  
Steve doesn’t tighten his grip on the man’s arm, just solidifies it. Shifts his center of gravity and tenses his body, the hold light but unyielding. “Best if you stay here, sir.”  
Sitwell tries to shake off Steve’s hold, and when that doesn’t work grabs his fingers and tries to lever them off. Meanwhile the crashing and squealing get louder, followed by the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.  
“What the hell is going on out there?” Sitwell squirms, throwing his weight around as he tries to pull out of Steve’s grip. Out in the storefront Bucky picks up something heavy and starts smacking at the walls, cursing gleefully. “You’re gonna pay for all that!”  
“Your insurance will cover it,” Nat says, flicking through his confidentiality agreement. “You do have insurance?”  
Her mouth twitches up, and Sitwell thrashes harder. Steve lets go, and he pitches into the wall, swearing under his breath and pulling his tie straight. “Insurance?” He points a finger at Steve. “I don’t need insurance, I’m gonna sue you maniacs for every last cent. Destruction of property, intimidation-”

The office door swings open and there’s Bucky, giving Sitwell a sharp toothed grin. “My ears are burning.”  
In his hand he’s holding what looks like some kind of rat with large, tufted ears and a barbed tail. It sits on its hind legs, whiskers twitching, and points a long, clawed finger at Sitwell, chittering loudly.  
“This the fucker?” Bucky asks, and the creatures head bobs up and down, its ears flopping.  
“That’s it!” Sitwell hisses. “That’s the thing that wrecked up my store!”  
The creature bristles, leaping towards him with its talons outstretched.  
Bucky grabs hold of it by the tail, and the creature lets out a squeal, glowering at him while it hangs from his pinched finger and thumb.  
“Ah-ah,” Bucky chides. “Play nice.”  
The creature chitters again, climbing back onto Bucky’s hand when it has said its piece.  
“Bucky?” Steve says, putting a hand on Sitwell’s shoulder in case he does something stupid. “You wanna explain?”  
“This here is Hager, he’s a Spriggan.” The creature gives a polite bow. “An’ he’s here about some gold coins, hand-stamped, dating back to 1641.”  
Siwell turns an ugly shade of sour milk. “I don’t know what you mean.” He looks at Steve’s hand still resting on his shoulder. “I want you all off my property.”  
“Treasure from a shipwreck in his homeland, picked up on a beach and brought across the sea,” Bucky continues like the man had never spoken. “Taken from a dresser when you making a house visit.”  
There are beads of sweat forming on Sitwell’s upper lip. “You… you can’t prove it. You can’t prove anything.” He turns to Steve. “He’s making it up.”  
Steve glances at Bucky, who’s mouth twitches. It’s all the encouragement he needs.  
“Well, Buck. It sounds like our services are not required.” He lets go of Sitwell’s shoulder. “Sorry for taking up your… valuable time, sir.”  
“You too, pal.” Bucky sets the Spriggan down on the desk. “Sorry for the interruption.”  
He winks at the Spriggan and it nods solemnly, before turning to Sitwell’s cluttered desk and digging its talons into the sales book, ripping easily through the pages of dense handwritten text.

Nat is still laughing as they walk back to the van, folding up the non disclosure agreement and tucking it into her pocket. Once reunited with its stolen coins, the Spriggan had vanished with a faint pop and a cackle, and they had left Sitwell to the unenviable task of cleaning up the mess.  
“You two.” Nat points to Steve as he climbs into the van after Bucky. “If I wasn’t the one working with you, I’d say you make a great team.”  
“You got an interesting way of paying a compliment, Natalia,” Bucky sighs and takes the unoccupied bench.  
Nat slaps the side of the van, and the agent up in the driver seat revs the engine. “You’re still a pain in the ass.”  
Bucky grunts, lying down and covering his face with his arm. “If you say so.”  
Steve watches as feigned sleep becomes genuine, Bucky’s arm shifting down until his silver hand is splayed across his chest. Nat is right, they do make a good team. Or at least they did before they fucked it up.  
Steve wasn’t an idiot, he knew that people looked at Bucky and saw the horns and the skin and jumped to conclusions. Hell, he’d done the same when they first met. But after that? If you watched closely? You’d see how damn big the guys heart was, how he cared for the twins because for all their pride they were still kids, how under all the screwing around with Luis there was genuine friendship. Steve’s gaze had lingered on the line of Bucky’s shoulders and the expanse of his chest, but he would never have gone past looking, not until Bucky shoved him against the back wall of a warehouse, mouth hot and frantic against his own. And Steve had felt _euphoric_. With every kiss, laughter had spilled from his mouth, joyful and overwhelming. The sight of Bucky on his knees should have been tawdry but instead it was humbling, and in that moment Steve would have given everything, been everything that Bucky asked for.  
And then it was over. Reality had crashed over them like an incoming tide, and whatever chance they might have had was washed away in the flood. He should have chased it, fought for it. But instead he buttoned up his pants and followed Bucky back to the Quinjet, silent and shameful, keeping a distance that had only grown wider with each passing day. And Bucky had let him.  
Steve Rogers has broken a lot of things in his life; coffee cups and promises, a few bones. But never a heart.

*** 

When they get back to base Bucky peels off and heads for the sanctuary of his room without a word, Instead of following him, hashing it all out like a fucking adult, Steve busies himself filling out his report in the rec room while Wanda watches some kind of makeover show on TV. Against his will Steve gets drawn into the show, the presenters are loud and pushy and surprisingly endearing. He could while away a few hours with Wanda, watching TV until he can safely call it too late in the day, postpone a painful conversation to another time in the distant, unspecified future. But Steve has never been one to take the easy way out. Decision made, he leaves Wanda to her show and walks down to Bucky’s room.  
He can hear the sound of music from halfway up the tunnel, though it’s nothing he’d call music.  
A clanking, clatter-bang of industrial noise, like a seizure in a junkyard, interspersed with growling, barely audible vocals. There is something in the singer that makes him uneasy, like a man whose throat is raw with screaming trying to sing a lullaby.  
There’s no use tapping on the open door, no one could hear it under the racket, but Steve does so anyway, a light rap on the doorframe. As if by some miracle the volume lowers, and he leans into the room.  
“Buck?” He calls out. “You got a minute?”  
In answer the music skips ahead, the same singer but without the roar and railing, moaning a hushed and bittersweet lullaby. Steve steps into the room, shoulders hunched, head bowed.  
Bucky is lying on the bed, a remote control held loosely in his red hand. There are cats surrounding him, tucked into the crooks and joints and spaces around him. Against the bend of his knee, the curve of his shoulder, the crook of his elbow, fitting like puzzle pieces.

There has not been a night when Steve hasn’t woken with the smell of Bucky lingering on his skin, the taste of him a memory on his lips, burnt matches and hot sand. It permeates the air of his room, and Steve aches with it.  
“You busy?” Steve asks, and Bucky grunts, rolling onto his side, giving Steve his back.  
Steve swallows a complaint and walks over to the bed, sitting down on the edge. One of the cats comes trotting over, tail held high. It pushes its head into Steve’s open hand, butting against it until he gets the hint and starts stroking.  
“Spit it out, Rogers,” Bucky sighs.  
Steve opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Maybe there’s nothing to say, maybe there’s too much, and all those unspoken words he’s swallowed down have compacted in his lungs, pressing down on his heart. Given a chance he would suffocate on his own silence.  
“Shit, Bucky. I don’t know.” He lies down, the bed wide enough for them both and a half dozen cats between them. “I miss you.” The cat climbs onto his chest and settles down, tucking its paws and tail under its body until it is a neat little loaf. “Don’t get me wrong, you work my last nerve-”  
“Likewise,” Bucky huffs.  
Steve falls silent for a minute, pushing the cat off and rolling onto his side. “I’m here to help you, you know that? Okay, so I’m not that good at it, it’s not like you come with a manual.”  
“You’re doing fine,” Bucky says, almost fondly. “You handled Sitwell pretty good.”  
“Oh god, don’t remind me,” Steve groans. “I handled that badly! I intimidated him, I was completely inappropriate.”  
“Like I said,” Steve can hear the grin in Bucky’s tone, low and teasing. “Pretty good.”  
Steve pokes his back. “Asshole.”  
“Stubborn little punk,” Bucky shoots back.

_Little_. It is in no way an accurate descriptor, but it feels good to hear after so long.  
“Big red monkey.”  
Bucky’s tail whips out, slapping Steve on the hip. He knocks it away, his heart kicking against his ribs, and the silence that falls between them is a little bit easier.  
“Hey, Buck?” Steve says softly, putting a hand on Bucky’s hip to get his attention. Once it’s there it’s hard to remove.  
“What now?” Bucky grouses, tail twitching on the covers, rousing the interest of a cat.  
“I need to be able to take care of myself,” Steve’s thumb strokes across the black cotton of Bucky’s shirt. “That’s what all this extra training is for. I’m not going for promotion or anything, alright?” It’s not entirely a lie, but neither is it the whole truth. He swallows, giving Bucky’s back a crooked smile. “You’re gonna be stuck with me a long time.”  
Bucky grunts again, and maybe it’s wishful thinking but it sounds more pleased.  
“But I need you to trust me, okay? I’ll get a handle on things.”  
Bucky turns his head slightly, and Steve sees the edge of his smile, wide and wicked. “You can get a hand on my thing.”  
For a second Steve is stunned into silence, until Bucky starts cackling.  
“You are such an asshole,” Steve gasps, and gives Bucky a smack on the ribs, which only makes him laugh harder. “You complete fucking asshole!”  
Bucky sniggers, and Steve rolls onto his back, drinking in the sound like water.  
It’s not what he wants, but then he’s never gotten what he wanted. It’s enough to hear him laugh.

***

The making and consecration of talismans has always come easily to Bucky. He started young, too young, going through his father’s library. The volumes of ancient languages sang to him, their meanings hidden behind hatches and curls, and he sought them out, learned to reshape them. His first charms were made with knotted shoelaces and felt tip on popsicle sticks. Then came modelling clay, pressed into circles and scratched with his fingernails, then thin sheets of copper and an awl.  
The Howlies wore everything he gave them, the shoestrings and paper beads and pewter rings. There was no talisman against age, and Father would not allow it if there was. When the time came they were buried with all their gifts, like kings with their hoard. And they were kings to Bucky, every last one of them.  
Bucky stopped making talismen after that, even when Luis came along. He had his conch, he didn’t need the clumsy esoterics of the west. When Wanda and Pietro came, he picked up his awl and started making again. But today’s project isn’t for either of them, it’s not even for Steve.

“Bucky,” Steve shouts out as he pushes through the door, and Bucky startles, dropping a stitch. “Dinner.”  
“Fuck!” Bucky scowls over his shoulder, before poking his needle into the net of silver thread, picking it up again before setting the piece down.  
Steve clears a space on the edge of Bucky’s desk, carefully moving scraps of pewter and spools of gold wire before putting a plate stacked high with quesadillas down. “C’mon, before they get cold.”  
Bucky scowls, grabbing one from the top of the stack and attempting to shove it in his mouth in one go. It’s filled with scalding hot cheese and raw habanero slices. Nice.  
“Jesus, Buck,” Steve grimaces as he shoves a little more into his open maw with a knuckle. “A little decorum?”  
Bucky swallows. “Is that like a hot sauce?”  
Steve snorts, but notices the piece Bucky was working on. “Are you knitting?”  
Bucky holds up his work, a delicate length of rib stitch in fine silver wire on a pair of darning needles. He doesn’t offer it up for closer inspection.  
“Wow,” Steve says softly. “What is it, a scarf?”  
“Why the hell would I make a scarf out of silver?” Bucky puts the needle down and grabs another quesadilla, eating it a little less vigorously. “It’s a ring.”  
“I think Wanda has enough rings,” Steve says with a smile. Bucky doesn’t respond, chewing on rapidly cooling cheese. He points to the pile still on the plate. “You not eating?”  
Steve goes pink around the ears, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I. Uh. I already ate.”

Huh. That’s weird, Steve makes a point of eating with Bucky once a day, and he wasn’t around for breakfast or lunch.  
“You want to watch a movie?” Bucky folds the next quesadilla in half and devours it in two bites. “We still ain’t seen _Delicatessen_.”  
Steve usually complains about Bucky’s movie choices, which veers between low budget horror and low budget arthouse nonsense, instead favouring the kind of movie where a man in a white vest runs around getting his clothes dirty, and something explodes at the end. But Steve just shifts uncomfortably.  
“I’m. I’m going out. For coffee.”  
“We got coffee here,” Bucky points out. “The nearest coffee place is like, Philadelphia.”  
“The nearest Starbucks,” Steve manages a smile. “There are other coffee places, Buck.”  
Bucky huffs. “If you say so. Can I come with?”  
“You know you can’t go topside.” Steve doesn’t sigh, just picks at a loose thread on his pants. “Nat’s taking me.”  
Bucky sits up a little straighter. “Why?”  
The light over the door starts flashing, and Bucky isn’t proud of the little thrill of relief that trickles down his neck. Talk about saved by the fucking bell. Or klaxon.  
Steve doesn’t look too crushed, pointing to the rest of Bucky’s dinner. “Eat up, we got work to do.”

Nat doesn’t seem to put out by the postponement either, and Bucky doesn’t spot anything odd between them as he climbs into the waiting van. Luis takes the space next to him while Nat and Steve sit side by side, and doesn’t _that_ sit like an itch under Bucky’s skin.  
“So what’s the job again?” Luis asks, adjusting his breathing cap until it fits more comfortably. “I know Abe said something about a magic axe, but I kind of wasn’t paying attention after that.”  
“Luis!” Nat says, exasperated.  
“Nah nah, listen,” Luis holds his hands up, webbed fingers spread. “So like I had this cousin, I mean not a cousin, like not related, but we used to hang, alright? My actual cousin was kind of a whackjob, had jaguar teeth and shit, I ain’t even joking, but Chaac was a pretty sound dude.”  
“Is there a point to all this?” Nat asks sourly.  
“I’m getting to it,” Luis promises. “So anyway, Chaac had this axe, right? A lightning axe? And he’d like, hit the clouds with it and boom!” Luis throws his hands up. “Thunder an’ lightning. So anyway, I thought it might have been that, an’ I kind of got distracted.”  
“It’s not that,” Nat says after a moment of processing.  
“Oh.” Luis lowers his hands. “Okay, cool.”  
“Luis,” Steve asks gently. “Do you ever think about seeing your family?”  
“Oh yeah,” Luis nods. “All the time. Like, I dream about it, an’ then I wake up and it’s like, thank fuck it was just a dream, y’know?”

Steve falls into a troubled silence, and since no one else is explaining what’s happening to Luis, Bucky sits forward. “So there’s a buddy of Dad’s in New York, got himself a private collection of antiquities. He’s got a regular alarm system, plus a few little traps I designed myself.” Bucky twirls his fingers in the air, sketching out a sigil. “Someone or something set off an alarm, and the place is on lockdown. So we gotta go check it out, find out who or what has sticky fingers, and take care of it. Capiche?”  
Luis nods. “Everything except _capeesh_.”  
Bucky waves a hand dismissively. “Then you’re all set.”  
When Luis doesn’t come up with any more questions, Bucky folds his arms across his chest and pretends to go to sleep, one eye cracked open to watch what Steve and Nat get up to. Boring talk about work, mostly, and Bucky eventually tunes it out until Steve gives his knee a light tap.  
“We’re here.”  
Bucky hasn’t seen the place in the twenty years since he put up the wardings but the Brownstone townhouse hasn’t changed a bit, even if the rest of Manhattan is near unrecognisable. The marks he left on the stoop are still there, scratched into the steps, barely visible in the light thrown from the streetlamps.  
“Woah,” Luis murmurs as he climbs out the van. “Fancy.”  
The support teams are already in place, a perimeter set up around the building so no passers by can see them walk in. They are met at the door by a man in his sixties, his clothes understated but expensive.  
He looks at Bucky fondly, opening up his arms. “My boy, it’s been too long.”  
Bucky gives him a hug. “How you doin’ old man?”  
“Less of the old,” the man chides, and turns to greet the rest of the team. “Selvig. Eric Selvig, professor of theoretical astrophysics. You must be Ms Romanov. Mr Rogers.” Nat and Steve nod in acknowledgement. “And this must be Xo-”  
“Luis is fine,” Luis interrupts. “Nice place you got here.”  
“Yes, well it keeps the rain off,” Selvig muses. “Please come in.”  
Nat takes a look around, taking in the sparse interior design and tasteful decorations. “You don’t look too bothered about having your place broken into.”  
“Well, I have every faith in Bucky’s wards,” Selvig gestures to the stairs. “The archive is up here, if you’ll follow me.”  
Bucky reaches the stairs before the others, taking them two at a time until he reaches the landing, while Steve and Luis follow at a more sedate pace, Nat at the rear.

“What kind of stuff you got, Mr S?” Luis asks.  
“Antiquities,” Selvig replies smoothly. “Viking grave goods, blacksmiths tools, some examples of Futhark writings.”  
“What does an astrophysicist want with all that?” Steve bristles, no doubt gearing up for a speech about it all belonging in a museum.  
“I’m Norwegian,” he says flatly, but Steve doesn’t look convinced. “Very well. Are you familiar with the Bifrost?”  
“Magic rainbow that takes people places?” Luis puffs up a little. “Yeah, we heard of it.”  
“I have spent my academic life studying the Einstein-Rosen Bridge, I believe the Bifrost is an ancient example of one.”  
“A what-what now?” Luis frowns.  
“Wormhole,” Bucky explains. “Porthole to other dimensions an’ all that Star Trek crap.”  
“There were numerous methods of summoning this bridge,” Selvig ignores him. “And accessing the other realms. The hammer Mjolnir, or constructing a Naglfar, a ship made of dead men’s nails to carry you from Muspell-”  
“Wait, what?” Luis grimaces. “Like toenails?”  
“I believe that it is possible to travel between these realms,” Selvig continues. “That in these ancient texts there is a key.”  
“That’s a lot of toenails,” Luis mutters. “How do you stick ‘em all together?”  
Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “How ‘bout we move this along. So whatever it is waited until sunset to break in, right?”  
Selvig nods. “I was just sitting down to dinner.”  
“Huh. Same,” Bucky sighs, gesturing for him to lead on.

Selvig leads them up the next flight of stairs and across a landing to a set of heavy oak doors. The seal inscribed in the wood looks singed in places, and Bucky pushes past him, running a thumb over the scorch marks as Selvig steps back. He flicks at the soot gathering under his fingernail thoughtfully. The seal had flared up with the breaking and entering, but remains intact. Whatever had broken in is trapped. He presses his silver hand to the wood, and feels the spell surge.  
“Luis, get over here,” he mutters. “What can you see?”  
Luis jostles up alongside him, leaning close and opening his mouth wide. He huffs in short little gasps of air, nosing at the wood, hands dancing across the surface. He is careful to avoid the sigil, smart guy.  
“Oooh, there’s two of ‘em, and they’re pissed. Can’t get out. Got what they wanted but can’t get out with it.” He gives Bucky an admiring look. “Dude, did you do all this? This shit is tight.”  
Bucky twitches up a shoulder, aiming for nonchalance. “Yeah, it’s okay, I guess. What are they?”  
Luis sniffs and pats at the door some more. “Nothing I seen before. Big an’ dumb, smell like stones. That make any sense?”  
Bucky shakes his head and pulls out the Samaritan. “Let’s go say hi.”  
He draws his silver hand over the sigil, watching as it fades from view, and pushes the door open.  
“Stay close, don’t poke anything,” Bucky warns, and steps into the room.  
Like the rest of the hous, it is neat and well ordered, with a few display cases filled with single artefacts spaced around the room. There are framed pieces hanging on the walls, along with a few examples of swords and axes. There is a space on wall, a pair of hooks where one should be hanging, but it is in the hands of a large, human-like creature staring out of one of the windows. The creature next to it is shorter, fatter, and picking disconsolately at its nose. They are naked, their misshapen bodies a powdery shade of grey, and vivid green moss and lichen grows in patches across their backs and under their arms.  
“Change of plans,” Bucky hisses, backing out of the room, shoving the Samaritan back in it’s holster..

“Bucky, what the hell-” Steve snaps as Bucky shoves him bodily onto the landing.  
“Nat, you still got that UV light in the van?” Bucky demands, pulling the door closed and scrawling a quick symbol on the wood with his silver hand. Rough, clumsy, and won’t last five minutes.  
“The one Barton got in case of vampires?” Something heavy thumps against the door, making it rattle in its frame. Definitely won’t last five minutes. “Yeah.”  
“Get it set up, but stay down there.” He tilts his head to Steve. “Take him with you, keep him locked in the van if he tries to come back.”  
“What?” Steve barks, and there is another thud against the door.  
“Eric, you go with them.” Selvig stares at the door, and Bucky snaps his fingers in front of the man’s face. “Off you go, old man.”  
“Bucky, wait.” Steve’s expression crumples, but it’s not something Bucky can think about.  
“Nat, anything comes out this building that isn’t me or Luis, you shine that light on it, alright?” Bucky waits for her to nod, and points to the windows on the upper floors. “You keep the place locked down until morning, not a minute before, and then you shoot out those windows. You’ll hear a fuckawful noise, but then it’ll be clear. Understood?”  
“Got it,” Nat says, and if she’s scared she’s hiding it well.  
“Bucky!” Steve grabs him by the shoulder, and damnit for once in his life can’t the idiot do as asked?  
“You’re a Christian, right?” Bucky asks him, and for a second Steve looks blankly at him.  
“Catholic,” he says finally. “Lapsed.” There is another thump against the door, the frame starting to splinter.  
Bucky points to Nat. “Russian Orthodox, right?”  
“How did you-”  
“In there is a pair of mountain trolls.” Nat’s eyes widen and she grabs Steve’s arm, pulling him away from Bucky. Dumb fucker stays put. “They ain’t smart, but they’re strong. What they really get excited about is Christians, can smell your blood, sends them on a rampage. So unless you want your skull cracking open like a peanut you will Go To The Fucking Van.”  
He puts a little influence in his words, a little fire in his breath, and Steve finally concedes, following Nat and Selvig down the stairs. He looks back up at Bucky, concern creasing his features, and disappears from view.  
That’s one less things to worry about, and Bucky thumbs the holster of his gun. Bullets are useless against Trolls, even the souped up kind he uses. Shit.

“You didn’t ask if I was Christian,” Luis watches the door creak and fracture.  
“You’re a psychopomp, pal.”  
Luis sniffs. “True, but you don’t have to say it.” and the door bursts open.  
The largest of the two trolls comes crashing through the doorway, oak splinters and shards flying through the air as it charges towards the stairs after the others. Bucky grabs it by the throat, moss springy under his red fingers, and throws it back into the room. It thumps into the wall, raising a cloud of plaster dust.  
“Get the other one!” Bucky yells at Luis, pointing to the second troll clawing at the door frame.  
Luis cracks his knuckles and makes a fist, punching the troll right on its long, bulbous nose.  
The big one hauls itself to its feet, shaking it’s head before lumbering forward, and Bucky pushes past Luis, raining blows on his trolls head, and blocks its way. He raises his fist above his head like a hammer as the troll snarls and charges.  
“Red!” he smashes the creature in the jaw, knocking its head to the side. “Means!” another strike to its throat, and it makes a gargling sound like water flowing over gravel. “Stop!” He brings down both fists on top of the creatures head, and it drops to its knees.  
Luis kicks out, knocking his troll onto its back. It lets out a low grinding noise and rolls to its feet. Luis shakes out his hand, mouthing an ‘ow’ as he catches his breath.  
Bucky checks on him, barely glancing away from the big fucker, but when he looks back it’s on its feet and coming for him.  
“Aw, crap.”  
The troll grabs hold of him, one hand on his shoulder, the other his hip, and lifts him into the air. Bucky punches the side of its face with his silver fist, its skin cracking and chipping away with the impact, but it still throws him across the room, his tail wheeling as he tries to right himself. He smacks the wall, leaving a hole in the plaster that Eric is not gonna be happy about, and tumbles to the floor with a curse.

“Buck?” Luis yells, kicking his troll in the gut.  
“Ow,” Bucky grouses, shaking the plaster dust out of his hair. The big fucker is headed for the door again, and Bucky lumbers after it, grabbing it by it’s long, skinny tail.  
“Hey!” Bucky gives the tail a hard yank. “We ain’t done yet.”  
The troll turns and swipes at him, and Bucky dodges out of the way, his foot catching on an axe lying on the floor, the damn thing the Trolls had been stealing. He flails, overbalancing, and lands on his back, the tail slipping out of his grip. _Damnit_.  
He needs a weapon, and reaches for the abandoned axe. As he grabs hold of the handle, he feels something weird flowing up through the wood and metal into his arm, like lightning and petrichor and old, old magic.  
There is potential there, like putting a key to a lock. A twitch of his fingers and he could open up something vast and-  
“Bucky!” Luis shrieks, both trolls rampaging towards him, and Bucky swears, hefting the axe and throwing it. It strikes the big fucker between the shoulders and cracks in two. It’s not enough to bring it down, but it gets the bastards attention. The creature swivels around, taking in the sight of its prize in pieces and turns to Bucky with a roar.  
It’s breath stinks, bad enough to make Bucky’s eyes water, and the creature charges him.  
If it had seemed deranged before, its nothing compared to now. It lashes out, mouth open in an unending howl, more blows missing than connecting, but it’s enough to put Bucky on the back foot. He grabs one of its arms, elbowing it in the gut, and wraps his silver fingers around its wrists, crushing it in his grip. It crumbles like chalk, the creature howling and raging as it punches at Bucky with it’s free hand.  
Blood pours from a split in his eyebrow, from his nose, from his busted lip, but Bucky keeps on twisting and crushing, until the hand finally falls away, hitting the floor a lifeless chunk of stone.

The Troll snarls and grabs Bucky one handed, heaving him into the air. He catches sight of Luis still wrestling with the other one as the bastard swings him around, aiming for the window.  
“Oh, this is gonna hurt,” Bucky groans.  
There is a scuffle on the landing and Steve appears in the splintered doorway, because Bucky’s life apparently wasn’t shitty enough. He has a boxy looking handheld lamp in one hand, a battery pack in the other, and okay maybe that’s kind of helpful.  
The room fills with a searing white light, and the Trolls scream, writhing and contorting as their bodies calcify and break apart in the light. Momentum is a bitch, though, and the big fucker lets go of Bucky, sending him crashing through the window and down to the street below.  
He sails through the air in the narrow alleyway and slams into the opposite building, fingers scrabbling for purchase. He almost, _almost_ , gets hold of a brick, but it’s too late, and he claws at the air as he falls. His tail lashes out, snagging at the railing of a fire escape.  
He dangles for a second, muscles screaming, and the ground looms towards him with horrible inevitability. Bucky screws his eyes shut, because maybe it will hurt less if he can’t see it, and his hold finally gives way.

The ground hurts as much if your eyes are open or closed, and he lies there for a minute, looking up at the flashes of light still flickering from the windows of Eric’s building.  
“Ow,” Bucky says out loud, his whole body a loud ache.  
_Son of Muspell_  
Bucky sits up. What the hell was that? “Hey!” he yells into the darkness of the alleyway. “Who’s there?”  
A figure appears from the shadows, dressed in a heavy overcoat, a hat down over his face, so Bucky can only make out his wire framed glasses. He looks frail, hunched over with age and leaning on a walking stick.  
“Have you forgotten me?” the man asks. “The one who brought you from the void?”  
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?”  
“You cost me the Stormbreaker,” the man sighs. His accent tugs at Bucky’s memory. German? Swiss? “No matter, Naglfar has already set sail.”  
“You’re the one who sent the Trolls.” Bucky wipes the blood from his eyes. “That means I gotta kill ya.”  
“You will not kill me.” The man smiles, ugly and cruel. “Another destiny awaits you, the Left Hand of Hydra. Your reign will be everlasting, and-”  
“Oh, shut up!” Bucky staggers to his feet. “I don’t know what History Channel crap you’ve been watching, but I remember Hydra. They’re dead. Gone. We dealt with them. And if you think you’re gonna start up that shit…” Bucky shrugs. “We’ll deal with you too.”  
He takes a threatening step forward, but the man has gone.  
“Fuck,” Bucky grumbles, and limps back to the van.

Steve is already in the back of the van, doing his best to patch up Luis who is giving a spirited recreation of the fight. Nat is outside with Eric, who is holding onto a piece of broken axe.  
“I’m guessing that’s what they were after,” Bucky says by way of greeting. “Sorry about… uh… everything.”  
“Stormbreaker,” Eric says sadly. “A priceless antique.”  
“Huh. That’s what the creepy old guy called it.”  
“The what?” Nat’s head snaps up. “Someone saw you?”  
Bucky gestures back to the alleyway. “Some old weirdo lurking back there. Gave me this big number about Hydra and the end of the world.”  
Nat walks to the mouth of the alley, but the man is long gone. “What else did he say?”  
Bucky shrugs, watching the way Steve smiles as Luis mimes throwing a punch. “Son of Muspell, manifest destiny. Real swivel-eyed loon.”  
Nat’s mouth twists. “I’d better call it in.”  
“Bucky!” Steve climbs out of the van, his expression caught somewhere between distressed and resigned. There is grit in his hair, dust clinging to his clothes. “Look at the state of you.”  
Bucky throws his arm out, then flinches at the sharp spasm of pain that flares across his shoulders. “You should see the other guy.”  
“Get in here,” Steve gestures to the van. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

Before Steve came along, Bucky had to wait until they got back to base before getting patched up by Banner. He didn’t miss it, aching and bleeding while the van knocked and jostled him about, feeling the bruises blooming under the skin. And Steve is too damn professional to let any lingering awkwardness between them keep him from checking for concussion and cleaning out his cuts.  
Of the two of them Luis got off lightly, but proudly sports a brightly coloured band-aid with a clownfish design on a branchial gill.  
Steve gives Bucky a rueful smile before offering a choice between Hello Kitty and blue tang to patch the cut over his eye.  
“Hello Kitty,” Bucky grins. “Duh.”  
“Of course,” Steve says softly, pressing one hand to Bucky’s cheek to keep him still while he puts the band-aid in place, pulling it tight to close up the wound.  
His fingers linger against the bruise forming on Bucky’s cheek, still a little damp from the antibacterial wipes he’d been using. It hurts. It shouldn’t but it hurts, an ache bone deep that will never heal right, and Bucky is the first to draw away.  
“So.” He clears his throat. “You ever planning on doing what you’re damn well told?”  
Steve sits back, and starts collecting up the debris from his first aid kit. “Nope.”

The rest of the journey is spent in silence, and Bucky hunches forward in his seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t pull on his shoulders or jostle his aching head. Nothing alleviates the discomfort, so he settles into it, waiting until he can get back to his room and sleep for a week.  
The van pulls up and Nat opens the doors, giving Luis a hand down. Steve jumps down after him, and Bucky shuffles out last, stretching his neck until he gets a satisfying pop.  
“Hey, Rogers?” Nat calls as they walk over to the checkpoint. “You still want that coffee?”  
Steve looks surprised, but nods. “Yeah. Let me just get Buck settled, I’ll meet you back here.”  
“You might wanna grab a shower,” Nat gestures to her hair. “You’ve still got Troll on you.”  
Steve laughs, self-deprecating, and brushes his hand through his hair. Something ugly and sour twists through Bucky’s gut, rising up his throat as Steve takes hold of his elbow.  
“C’mon, Buck. You’ll feel better once you’ve had a lie down.”  
Bucky says nothing, letting Steve lead him and Luis through to the junction. It’ll take him at least five minutes to shower and change, and Bucky can easily slip out of his room in that time and tail them.  
He’s so busy making plans he doesn’t realise until too late that Steve is taking them to Banner.

“Hey, Doc?” Steve calls and taps on the doorframe. Banner is sat behind his desk, his clothes rumpled, his hair a peppered tangle, working through some notes. He looks up at them, and starts fumbling around his desk for his glasses, before finding them perched on top of his head.  
“Yes.” He walks over to a sink in the corner and gives his hands a wash. “In a fight with… Trolls, is that right?”  
“I kicked its ass,” Luis says proudly.  
Banner gives him a weary smile. “Do I need to x-ray your foot?”  
Luis gets quickly cleared and sent on his way, because goody two-shoes don’t need a chaperone, and Bucky is instructed to sit on a gurney next.  
“Multiple contusions, several minor lacerations,” Steve rattles off. While Banner does the exam. “Fractures to the orbital rim.”  
“They don’t feel minor,” Bucky grouses, his tail flicking back and forth as Banner starts poking at him, pressing at his cheeks and bridge of his nose.  
“No sign of concussion, which considering he fell three storeys is kind of a miracle,” Steve adds.  
“Well, our Bucky here is resilient,” Banner says absently, taking hold of Bucky’s red hand and rotating his wrist. “He’ll heal up surprisingly fast.”  
“I’m right here, y’know,” Bucky grumbles.  
“I know you are, Buck,” Steve says softly, before turning his attention to Banner. “You need me for anything?”  
“No, we’re fine,” Banner presses a thumb to Bucky’s shoulder, making him yelp. “I can get him back to his room, Steve, you go on.”  
Steve thanks him, and says something to Bucky, but he pretends not to hear it, wincing again as Banner jabs at his neck.  
“How’s the whammer?” Banner asks, taking up Bucky’s silver hand.  
“Feels prickly,” Bucky admits. “Picked up a weird artifact an’ it… I don’t know, it felt weird.”  
“Weird, huh?” Banner hums absently. “Nothing here that a little rest won’t fix.” He gives Bucky a pat on the non-bruised shoulder. “I like your band-aid.”

True to his word, Banner takes Bucky down to the Zoo, ignoring all his insistence that he can manage alone. For all his rumpled appearance and mild manners, Banner is shrewd and not easily misled, so Bucky goes along with it for now. He still has time, he can slip away once Banner leaves, and get topside before they’re gone. If he’s really lucky Luis won’t be around to poke at him and ask why he’s so set on going.  
“Dr Banner?” Erskine calls from the library as they walk past. “Is my son with you?”  
“Professor, yes he’s right here.”  
_Fuck_  
Banner leads Bucky into the library, where Erskine is waiting. There is no movement in the tank behind him, so Luis must be doing the sensible thing and getting some rest.  
“Hey, dad.” Bucky shifts from foot to foot as Erskine looks him up and down, taking in the bruises and the bleeding and finally resting on the brightly coloured band-aid. His mouth twists, fond and bitter.  
“Thank you, Doctor,” Erskine says, his voice strained. “I’ll take it from here.”  
Banner nods, and leaves them to it. Instead of asking Bucky to sit, or launching into a lecture on responsibilities, Erskine walks over to a bookcase, his back to his son.  
Bucky wonders vaguely what the fuck he did wrong this time.

“Ms Romanov said you had a… an encounter?” Erskine’s voice sound far away.  
“Yeah.” Bucky licks his dry lips, a cut opening up and filling his mouth with the copper edge of blood. “Some creepy old guy, Swiss maybe? Said I knew him. Called me a son of Muspell and that I was the left hand of Hydra or some bullshit.”  
Erskine flinches, his hand gripping the bookcase to keep himself upright. “Zola? He’s still alive?”  
“But it was just a crazy old man, right?” Bucky points out. “Hydra’s been dead an’ buried since the fifties. We stamped them out.” Erskine doesn’t say a word, doesn’t reassure him, doesn’t turn to face him. “It was just a weirdo, alright? Manhattan is full of weirdos.”  
“I am so sorry,” Erskine whispers. “I meant to tell you, but the time was never right, and I was afraid.”  
“Dad?” Bucky takes a step towards him. “Dad, what-”  
“I thought we would have more time, that these were just coincidences.” Erskine shakes his head. “The rune stones, Stormbreaker…”  
“Dad, what are you talking about?” Bucky takes another step closer.  
“Muspell.” The word is spat out like poison. “What do you know about Muspell?”  
Bucky frowns. Father still won’t look at him, so he retreats to Luis’ tank, seeking him out in the drifting fronds of seaweed. “Múspellsheimr, one of the Nine Realms.” He sees Erskine’s face reflected in the glass, watching him. “Born out of the primordial void of the Ginnungagap, a land of fire and destruction. Home of the Rjúfendr, and the fire giants.”  
“And where you were formed.”  
Bucky turns to look at him. “What?”

Erskine walks over to the coffee table and pours himself a glass of schnapps, the liquor spilling with the shaking of his hand.  
“You said you found me in Norway,” Bucky points to the ground between them. “In an abandoned church.”  
“I did.” Erskine downs the whole glass in one long swallow. “I hid the lie within the truth.”  
He pours another measure. “There had been rumours of Hydra seeking a weapon, an ultimate weapon, and we went in search of it. We found Johann Schmidt, and the man you spoke to, Arnim Zola. They sought the Tesseract, an arcane device. With it they would open the Bifrost to Múspellsheimr and call forth a demonic army.”  
“But you closed it, right?” Bucky’s stomach tilts and reels, his heart kicking against his ribs. “Dugan used to tell the story every time it snowed. You closed it in time, nothing got through.”  
Erskine swallows his second glass and pours a third. “You did.”  
There is something on the cusp of his memory. Of being called forth from the nothingness, of being dragged into being in flames and terror. Inexorable and unasked for, he had railed against it, tried to crawl back to the void as light and shadow twisted and shaped his form. Cold stone and and cordite and a coat wrapped around him.  
He had not been born of woman, no mother had carried him in her womb. He had been formed out of nothing, called to existence like the strike of flint against stone.  
“In the Edda you are called Surtr’s flame,” Erskine says softly, as if the words applied gently would render them less terrible. “ _The Scathe of Branches_.”

Ragnarök. The end of days when the God’s wage war and the world falls to fire and ruin.  
Bucky’s head aches, as though a metal band has been wrapped around his skull and is slowly being tightened. He clutches at his temples, fingers catching at the band-aid and ripping it free.  
The Scathe of Branches, the all-consuming fire that will tear across creation. He can feel it deep in his bones, where there should be meat and marrow there is ash and embers, waiting to be ignited.  
“You’re telling me I’m a… I’m the…” He can’t say it. It feels like viscous black oil filling his throat. And with it comes rage, fury his father for keeping the truth from him, rage at himself for being so fucking blind. What had he been thinking? He had horns, huge curved horns, and he thought cutting them back would make him look _human_? That he had been hit by what? A Fairy curse?  
“You… you let me out in public?” Bucky says, horrified. “You left me alone with the twins?”  
“You are no danger to Wanda and Pietro, nor anyone else for that matter,” Erskine insists.  
“I’m a monster,” Bucky snarls.  
“You are a man!” Erskine shouts back, and then, softly. “You are my son.”

***

The wind whips over Høgste Breakulen, bringing the cold air down from the mountains, and with it wreaths of freezing fog as the day draws to an end.  
“Herr Zola,” someone calls across the ice, one of the braying minions he cannot recall the name of. “We should get back to camp before nightfall.”  
Zola snorts, pulling the brim of his hat down in a poor attempt to shield his face from the wind. “We will wait.”  
The minion goes back to his duties, surveying the glacier for any sign of movement.  
It is too damn cold, and getting colder with every passing minute. He is old, grown far beyond the years that time had allotted him, but soon his master shall return, and will grant him life eternal. He can stand to be cold a little while, Zola reminds himself, and does not think of what punishments await if he is not here for his masters arrival.  
He has become lazy in his dotage, too easily tempted by half measures when he is one burdened with such glorious purpose. The rune stones should have been simple, but he hadn’t accounted for the creature's willingness to destroy them before losing them. The axe had been a disappointment, and the loss of two mountain trolls along with it. The bargain had been hard one, and ultimately fruitless.

“Herr Zola!” Someone calls. “Look!”  
High up in the ridge, lit up from behind by the setting sun, something glitters strangely in the light. Shades of salmon and gold reflect and refract off the sides of an approaching boat. The Naglfar, its hull, brittle and chitinous, shimmers in the dying of the light, as if clad in innumerable insect casings, rounded and faintly ridged. The craft drifts through the fog, skimming the surface of the glacier as it approaches, and Zola’s heart soars and sinks when he spies a single passenger, draped in a black cloak.  
_Oh to have failed, why couldn’t it have failed?_  
“Master!” he staggers forward as the Naglfar comes to a halt, mist clinging to the bow. His bones are stiff from standing still too long, but he approaches with reverence. “I have found you at last!”  
The figure stands, the boat barely shifting with the motion, and draws back the hood of his cloak. Johann Schmidt, his face blistered and raw, his eyes bulging from lidless sockets, steps onto the land. The ice hisses under his bare feet, as though the glacier itself burned at his touch. With a wave of his hand, the Naglfar retreats into the gathering darkness, and is lost from sight.  
“Master?” Unease slithers in Zola’s guts like a serpent. “Herr Schmidt?”  
“Hmm?” The figure cocks its head to one side. “No.”

As Zola stares in horror, the figure disrobes, revealing Schmidt’s naked body, blistered and skeletal. It pushes its fingers into his eye sockets, blood pouring down its cheeks, and tears the front of its face off.  
Zola screams, covering his eyes as the abomination performs some sort of horrific striptease, peeling away flesh and cartilage, to reveal another form hidden underneath.  
“Much better.” The horror plucks a last shred of Johann Schmidt from the sleeve of his tailored jacket and smiles.  
Zola’s hands fall to his sides, taking in the figure before him. A man but not a man, with a weathered, kindly face and blond hair. It looks incongruous on the ice, in its three piece suit that wouldn’t look out of place on Wall Street. It unbuttons its jacket and sticks a hand in its pocket, shifting its weight to one hip.  
“You’ll forgive the intrusion,” it says lightly, gesturing to the shredded remains of Schmidt at its feet. “I needed to hitch a ride.” 

Zola is a fast learner, it’s what has made him last so long, and he falls down to his knees, bowing his head.  
“Master,” he whines, his body trembling. “I am at your service.”  
The abomination approaches him and lays a gentle hand on his head. “I thank you for that service, but it is unnecessary.”  
He tightens his grip, and Zola feels the moment his skull shatters.  
He drops to the ground, blood soaking into the ice around him. The last light he will ever see fading as the abomination leans over him, wiping his blood from its fingers with a handkerchief.  
“Well,” it says with a warm smile. “Let’s get started.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hager (Cornish) - Ugly


	6. The Blood-Dimmed Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky scrubs his silver hand through the air in front of his face, as if he could scour away the monster and reveal a man underneath.  
> “I wish I could do something about this.”

Bucky taps on the tank with the bottle he has in one hand, and when that doesn’t rouse Luis he smacks a little harder with the mason jar in the other.  
“Salamander!” He shakes the jar, the pickled eggs inside wobbling. “Wake up!”  
The fronds of kelp in the tank sway back and forth, and he sees Luis’ face peeking out from their depths.  
“Hey!” Bucky points, nearly dropping his bottle of stupid fancy tequila. “I see you!”  
Luis pushes his way through the tall strands of seaweed, undulating through the water towards him. He doesn’t reach for the glass, keeping a safe distance. “You alright man?”  
Bucky shakes the bottle. “Come on, have a drink with me.”  
Luis’ nose wrinkles, his branchial gills lying flat against his skull. “Ain’t you had enough?”  
Bucky shakes his head, and that makes the room lurch and wheel. He sinks to the floor in an ungainly heap, clutching the jar to his chest.  
“I got you some eggs,” he hiccups. “You don’t have to come out, I can just open up the jar and tip ‘em in the tank.”  
Bucky puts the eggs down and scrubs his hand over his face. The cuts are healing already, because _of course_ , but they itch like a bastard.  
There’s a low thump and a slosh of water, and Luis climbs out of the tank, sitting on the edge while he puts on his cap and then dropping lightly on the floor beside Bucky. Despite the cost, he puts a webbed hand to Bucky’s forehead, cool and slick. It’s soothing, and Bucky is sore need of being soothed. It’s not fair to let his guard drop, to let the whole sticky, ugly tangle of him spill into Luis’ arms. But then nothing is fair.  
“Well, shit,” Luis sighs, and sits down next to him. “What are we drinking?”

Sixty something years of drinking, from nips of whatever Dugan had to hand when Dad wasn’t looking, to six packs swiped from teens in the park, has not refined Bucky’s palate when it comes to liquor. While Luis has clear ideas about what he will and won't touch, Bucky takes the any port in a storm approach. If it will get him plastered, he’ll drink it.  
But he loves Luis, which is why he’s holding up a fifth of Patrón, dumb bottle and all. “You like this one, right?”  
Luis nods, and Bucky pulls out the cork, setting on the floor and spinning it like a top. Luis takes the bottle and downs a hefty gulp, his branchial gills quaking as he hands the bottle back.  
“Empty stomach,” he hiccups. “C’mon, don’t hog the jar.”  
Bucky unscrews the lid and hands it over, watching as Luis fishes out a pickled egg.   
The chickens are Barton’s, though you wouldn’t think it to look at the guy. Bucky has no idea what the story behind that is, just that he’s got a bunch of chickens. They produce more eggs than he can stand to eat, so he pickles the rest, and there’s nothing in the world Luis likes more than pickled eggs.   
On the Friday night poker games that absolutely don’t happen when Dad and Steve are asleep, they sit around a table in the canteen. Bucky with his stash of silverware and pewter, Barton with his munitions and jars of pickles, Pietro with whatever he’s begged or borrowed, and they do their best to relieve Hill and whichever idiot decides to chip in of actual money.  
If Coulson ever found out he’d fire the lot of them, but that’s half the reason they do it.

Luis chews slowly on his egg, savouring it. He offers the jar to Bucky, who picks out one of the chili peppers wedged in between the eggs and nibbles on the tip forlornly.  
“Hey.” Luis gestures for the bottle. “I ever tell you about the five suns?”  
“Don’t know.” Bucky hands it over. “Don’t care.”  
“Alright, well get your ass ready for a story.” Luis finishes off his egg. “So before anything there was nothing, right? Only darkness. An’ that shit wasn’t gonna fly, so my brothers went let’s get making stuff. Sky and water and ocelots an’ so on, but it needed a sun. So eldest brother got elected to become a sun, which meant setting his ass on fire and throwing him up into the sky like a damned football.” Luis mimes an overarm throw, and Bucky snorts, he can’t help it. “It will shock fuckin’ no one to hear that didn’t work. So next brother went I’ll do it, lit his ass on fire and up he went.”  
“Shit,” Bucky mutters around the mouth of the bottle. “Did it work that time?”  
“Oh yeah. But while he was chilling in the sky, older brother turned all the people into monkeys.”   
Bucky chokes on his tequila, a thin rivulet spilling down his chin. “What?” He wipes his chin with his wrist.  
“I swear! So Quetz hauls ass back to earth to have it out with him. There’s storms and raging and monkeys flying about.” Luis gestures wildly. “Neither would let the other back up there, so the rest of the family went fine, we’ll get someone else. Picked some random bastard, lit him up, and up he went. But they never actually asked if he was cool with it, and he was not cool. Nuh-uh. Scratch sun number three. So there was a meeting, and sun number four was elected, an’ up she went.” Luis dredges another egg out of the jar. “She was a great sun y’know? Never too hot, never too cold, a real peach too.” He eats his egg in a single bite, giving Bucky an expectant look.   
Bucky sighs, handing over the bottle. “And your brothers?”  
“The biggest hissyfit of all time,” Luis pauses to take a drink. “Ain’t having no girl do a man’s job an’ all that, and they knocked her out of the sky. Assholes.” Luis stares at the bottle, drawing a webbed finger over the label. “So one last try, an this time it wasn’t just gonna be light his ass and bowl him up there. Can’t have a sun that goes wandering about or coming back down, the fucker’s gotta be good an’ dead while he burns.”  
Bucky watches him closely. “They picked you, huh?”

Luis leans back against his tank, stretching his legs out. “Bawled my fucking eyes out when they told me.” His branchial gills flare up, bristling like the roused feathers of a bird. “And then I fuckin’ ran.”  
Bucky gives the jar of eggs a little shake, and they bob and bounce in their vinegar bath. “They ever find you?”  
“Not yet.” Luis picks out another egg. “My ass is essentially in the clear.”  
Bucky hums, reaching over to reclaim the bottle and take a swig. “As much as I appreciate the heart-to-heart, is there a point to this story?”  
“Nah.”   
Luis gnaws on his egg, taking delicate little bites, and Bucky closes his eyes, just for a moment.  
“Nothing’s changed, man,” Luis says quietly. “You’re the same guy you were yesterday. Same guy you’ll be tomorrow. You got a heart the size of a horse, ain’t nothing gonna change that.”  
Bucky huffs. “What makes you so fucking sure?”  
He opens his eyes to see Luis nibble away the last of the rubbery white of his egg, leaving the chalky yellow orb of yolk. He regards it solemnly before tossing it in his mouth.  
“If we’re drinking we oughta be singing,” he announces, and gives Bucky’s knee a slap. “C’mon, sing a song.”  
“Fuck off,” Bucky grumbles around a mouthful of tequila.  
“Fine, I’ll sing.”  
“Don’t you fucking-” Bucky lunges for him, but Luis is on his feet, slippery little fucker.  
“ _Raindrops keep falling on my head_.” Luis dances out of reach. “ _Just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed_!”  
Bucky shambles upright, bottle in hand, while Luis does a passable soft shoe shuffle.  
“Ugh. Fine.” Bucky clears his throat. “ _If there’s one thing I know, the blues they sent to meet me won’t defeat me_.”  
Luis sways towards him, singing along. “ _It won’t be long ‘till happiness steps up to greet me_.”

_Because I’m free  
Nothing’s worrying me._

***

Sober people are terrible, Bucky decides when Steve slams a glass of water on the table in front of him.  
“You’re blocking the TV,” he rasps when Steve doesn’t move, and goes back to burying his face in the couch cushions. He’s seen this show already, fucking reruns, but it’s a matter of principle.  
“How much did you put away last night?” Steve asks, hands on his hips.  
Bucky makes no attempt to move, his mouth already tastes like old carpet, so a bit of couch doesn’t hurt. “Luis was drinking too.”  
It comes out a muffled grumble, so Steve pulls the cushion out from under Bucky’s face. “What was that?”  
“I said Luis started it.” Bucky makes a grab for the cushion, but the asshole is out of reach.  
“Yeah, I heard you singing,” Steve grins.  
“Aw, crap.”  
“I’m surprised you knew all the words to _500 miles_ ,” Wanda calls from the other couch. She probably has it recorded on her phone too. Fuck.  
“I thought your Take on Me was pretty good,” Steve’s grin gets wider. “Even got the high notes.”  
“Fuck you all,” Bucky takes a lunge at the cushion, and Steve capitulates, dropping it on his head.  
“Drink your water, Buck.” He tousles Bucky’s hair. “Feel better.”

Bucky snags the glass and takes a sip. Okay, so it was a dumb idea to get drunk, but he kind of feels better for it. Not better, he feels fucking terrible, but less… clogged up. The situation is still seven shades of fucked up, but what else is new.  
“How’s the fish?” Bucky rumbles, putting the empty glass on the floor.  
“He’s fine.” Steve snags the glass and refills it. “Didn’t drink on an empty stomach. And I guess being in a tank means hydration isn't an issue.”  
“Lucky fucker,” Bucky downs the fresh glass. “Y’know if you heated this up, maybe added some kind of roasted beans…”  
“No coffee,” Steve says firmly. “You’re already dehydrated, it’ll only make you feel worse.”  
“I disagree,” Bucky grouses.  
“Well, get back to me when you’ve had four years of training and seven of postgrad experience.”  
Bucky holds out his empty glass for Steve to refill. “You’re no fun.”  
At the word coffee Wanda perks up, sitting bolt upright on her couch like a mongoose sighting a snake.  
“So how was the date last night?” she asks.  
The coffee with Nat. Bucky wishes he could say that in all the shit with his Dad he’d forgotten about it, but that would be a lie. Steve cringes visibly, shoulders drawing in, head dropping down, making himself less of a target. “It wasn’t a date,” he mutters, defensive.  
Bucky scrunches himself up in a ball, silver hand gripping his ankle hard enough to bruise, tail wrapping around his legs. Steve shifts from foot to foot, twisting Bucky’s glass around in hands.   
He looks furtive, a man with a secret.  
“She was… giving me advice,” Steve tells the floor. “She’s a friend.”  
“If you say so.” Wanda returns her attention to the TV.

Steve fetches another glass of water, putting it down where Bucky can reach it. He should say nothing, let the whole sorry mess drop, but somewhere between Bucky’s brain and his tongue the signal gets lost.  
“Would you tell me? If you an’ her were… ?” he asks, and immediately wishes he could take it back.  
“I’d never lie to you, Buck,” Steve says without hesitation, and drops his hand on Bucky’s head, curling his fingers in his hair. He doesn’t flinch away from the horns, working his fingertips in gentle circles right about where the headache is at its worst.  
It feels good, good enough that Bucky is starting to go cross-eyed, and he shakes his head, swatting Steve away like a fly.  
Steve gives him a wounded look, quickly masked, and turns to leave. _Crap_.  
“Hey!” Bucky smacks the other end of the couch with his heel. “Come on, sit.”  
For a moment Bucky thinks Steve is going to makes some excuse and leave, but he takes hold of Bucky’s foot, lifting it up and sitting down on the couch. He lowers Bucky’s foot onto his knee, cradling the faint purple blush of bruising there without drawing attention to it. Instead he nods to the TV. “What are we watching?”  
“Cutthroat Kitchen,” Bucky motions for Wanda to turn up the volume, and she flicks her fingers at the screen.  
“Why is that guy walking around with a big fish?” Steve’s hand curls around Bucky’s ankle, thumb circling the nascent bruise.  
“Cutthroat Kitchen,” Wanda says by way of explanation.  
Bucky offers no comment, sinking into the couch cushions and not thinking about the weight of Steve’s fingers on his skin.

***

Things don’t get better, not really. You adapt to the shit and keep your head above water until the next wave of crap comes along. Sometimes it’s a literal wave.  
“Buck?” Steve calls from the doorway, the alarm flashing red above him. “We got work to do.”  
Bucky straightens up in his chair, rolling his shoulders. His latest project lies unfinished on the desk, a delicate silver flask painstakingly engraved with celtic knotwork. Why the fuck did he decide to engrave it by hand rather than cast it? Bucky grimaces, rubbing his eyes. He knows damn well why, he’s getting desperate. Some things are beyond the reach of magic, but it won’t stop him trying.  
“What we got?” he asks, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. There’s a cat sprawled on his lap, who yowls when he dislodges her and gets up. “Sorry Angie.” Bucky bends down to scratch her head and she trills amicably.  
“Something in the East River.” Steve shrugs. “Guess we’re taking Luis.”  
“The East River? In summer?” Bucky shakes his head “The water’s gonna be like seventy, eighty degrees.”  
Steve chews his lip thoughtfully. “Too hot?”  
“Damn right,” Bucky walks over to the bookcase to poke through his supplies. “Any idea what we’re dealing with?”  
“Some kind of…” Steve looks unconvinced. “River monster? People walking in Astoria Park have seen some kind of… hairy thing climbing out of the water, trying to grab them. Hill said to go check it out.”  
“Huh.” Bucky opens a box and roots through the contents. “Could be a Vodník. Grab the twins, tell ‘em we’re having a field trip.”  
Steve nods, and gives the door frame a tap before heading off. Bucky grabs the Samaritan and follows.

By the time Bucky reaches the library, Pietro is bouncing off the walls with impatience, waiting for Wanda to get ready.   
“Hey, Pops.” Bucky gives Erskine a half-hearted wave. The old man gives him a tired smile, still lost in his research, books piled around his feet as he searches through the library. “How are the auspices?”  
“Obscured,” he answers absently.  
“Ain’t that the fucking truth.”  
Erskine looks up from his book with a smile. “Language, my boy.” His tone is light, teasing, and makes Bucky want to tease back.  
“Ain’t nothing as versatile as the word ‘fuck’ old man,” Bucky grins. Erskine lowers his glasses and peers at Bucky over the wire frames. His smile plummets. “Sorry, Dad.”  
Wanda arrives, decked out in her rings and pendants, and Bucky gives her a surreptitious once-over. Tiger’s Eye for luck, a leopard's claw for strength, a delicate silver pomander filled with iron splinters. Pietro is wearing his knotted cords at his wrist, which is as much as Bucky can hope for. All fifteen year old boys think they’re invincible, there’s no arguing with that.  
“Well.” Bucky gestures for Steve to lead them out. “Let’s go say hello.”

With the twins in the back as well as Steve and Bucky, Nat decides to ride up front, sparing them all from Pietro’s latest attempts at seduction. She leaves a walkie talkie with Steve in case of trouble, which he places on the bench beside him and promptly forgets about. Bucky has every intention of taking up a bench for a lie down but Steve beats him to it, sliding in beside him with an innocent look on his face while the twins settle down on the bench opposite.  
“Bucky said we were looking at a… Vodník?” Steve asks them.  
Wanda glances at her brother. “Maybe? I’ve never seen one before.”  
“I have,” Pieto says smugly.  
“Liar, you have not,” Wanda hisses.  
“I _have_ ,” Pietro insists. “When we went to visit Babička, there was one in the river.”  
Steve interrupts before the fight picks up steam. “Well, we’ll soon find out either way, right?”  
Wanda hisses something at Pietro in Sokovian, and he pokes out his tongue.  
“So we’re just checking things out, right?” Pietro asks, aiming for indifference and missing by a wide mark. “Just us guys, taking a look around.”  
Bucky snorts. The kid is not subtle, and no doubt filled with ideas about slipping away and having a little fun. “You stealing my bit, kid?”  
Pietro raises an eyebrow. “Maybe.”  
“There’s already a support team in place,” Steve sighs. “They’ve cordoned off the waterside and got units on the water.” His gaze flicks to Bucky and away again. “Don’t go running off, okay?”  
“Who’s already out there?” Wanda asks, an edge to her voice that Bucky doesn’t like.   
“The usual, plus Rumlow and the Strike team,” Steve doesn’t seem to pick up on it.   
Wanda’s expression doesn’t change.  
“What?” Bucky leans forward, hands clenching into fists. If that fucker has even breathed near her he’ll-  
“Nothing,” Wanda says, quiet and firm. “Something about him bothers me, that’s all.”  
“Rumlow has been a member of the SSR for eight years,” Steve sounds odd, like he’s quoting. “And has in that time been an exemplary member of the team.”  
“You been sneaking a look at people’s files, Steve?” Bucky asks.  
Steve glances at him then looks away, jaw clenched tight. “Just wanted to be sure.”

The road is closed along Shore Blvd, where Harlem River meets the East River at Mill Rock, and a member of the Strike team waves the van through. There’s a jolt as it pulls up onto the kerb, throwing everyone inside about before coming to a stop.   
After a minute Nat opens up the back of the van, revealing Rumlow and that greasy looking fucker who’s always tagging around after him. Damned if Bucky can remember the guys name. He sneers at them, a hand on his sidearm, and Rumlow slaps him on the chest, murmuring something that makes him back off a little.  
Bucky climbs out first, taking a look around. The sun is low in the sky, maybe an hour from setting, and he shields his eyes from the light.  
“Hey, Nat? What’s that big glowing yellow thing up there? Some kind of-”  
“Yeah, yeah,” Nat hustles the twins out. “Very funny. You’ve seen the sun before, Red.”  
“I don’t know.” Bucky sucks on his teeth. “It’s been a while.”  
“Get moving.” Nat has no patience for him. “This thing is active around sunrise and sunset, we don’t have much time.”  
There is a low steel fence running alongside the road, and Bucky vaults it easily, landing on the jagged rocks that lead down to the water. Steve follows in similar fashion, one hand on the top bar and hopping over, and follows him down the rocks. The river churns and roils, waves crashing back and forth loud enough that Bucky has to raise his voice to be heard.  
“They used to call this place Hell Gate. The Hudson, Long Island sound and the East River all meet up here, which makes for whirlpools an’ all kind of nasty shit, a real death trap.” Bucky points out the water, where one of the support teams is in a speedboat patrolling the other shore. The boat rises up and crashes down with the waves, tipping violently back and forth. Bucky taps his boot on the stone he’s standing on. “There used to be jagged rocks just under the surface. Anything coming in at low tide got smashed up.”  
Steve cranes his neck, trying to catch sight of anything moving in the depths, but the water is dark and murky, the waves white-tipped and frenetic. “But it’s safe now, right?”  
“More or less,” Bucky shrugs. “Cleared it with dynamite. Still not something I’d take a dip in.”  
Steve nods in agreement before moving a little further downstream, keeping an eye on Wanda crouching down on the rocks.

“Little Red?” Bucky shouts. “What d’you see?”  
Wanda glances his way, and shakes her head. “Not a Vodník. Not a Rusalka either.”  
Well, scratch that idea. Bucky clambers down to the water, hunkering down and getting his boots wet.  
“Could it have been the dynamite?” Steve asks, keeping a safe distance. “Disturbed something, brought it out?”  
Bucky snorts. “Hardly. Been over a hundred years since they cleared the Hell Gate.”  
“Well that’s a comforting name for a place.”  
Bucky sits back on his heels. “There’s something out here, I can smell it. Ain’t been here long, drawn to the noise an’ people.”  
He looks around, and catches sight of Pietro a little up the river, Nat by his side. The Strike team give them a wide berth, hands on their weapons. Since when was that protocol?   
While he’s looking around Steve starts picking his way across the rocks, looking for fuck-knows-what. Bucky picks up a jagged little stone wedged between two rocks and flicks it into the water, where it quickly disappears from view.  
“How’d you know so much about New York?” Steve calls over, a wry little smile tugging at his mouth.  
Bucky scratches his chin. It was Dernier who told him the story of Hell Gate, how they’d set off 300,000 pounds of explosives in one go, the shockwave felt as far away as Princeton.  
“Was thinking of becoming a tour guide,” he says with a grin. “Can’t chase monsters forever.”  
Steve snorts, murmuring something under his breath. Bucky doesn’t quite catch it, his attention on an odd swell in the waves further out.   
“Guys?” he says softly, rising to his feet.  
There is no other warning, no sound or disturbance in the choppy waters, and the creature launches itself out of the water onto the shore.

It is large and sleek, it’s broad, densely furred body soaking and streamlined as it leaps from the waves like a thrown spear.  
Bucky barely registers the pointed, canine face or the coarse whiskers. Only the huge white teeth in its gaping maw as it lunges for Wanda at the water’s edge.  
Wanda screams, stumbling backwards and losing her footing, landing heavily on the rocks with a shout of pain. Bucky starts charging towards her, sloshing through the water after the creature, but he’s too damn far away. Why did he let her wander so far?  
Steve, already positioned halfway between them, reaches her first. The thing is almost on top of her, jaws snapping, water spray thrown up around them. Bucky sees it happen as if in slow motion, the moment Steve realises how much momentum is behind the damn thing, that he’s not going to stop it in time. He punches out, and shoves his hand into the creatures wide open mouth down to his forearm.  
It clamps down, and Steve lets out a roar of pain, and the fucking idiot shoves his hand in even further.  
Bucky grabs Wanda under the armpits, hauling her to her feet and out of the way. Pietro reaches them a second later, and Bucky shoves her into his arms before wading down into the shallows to deal with the idiot.   
He has just enough wits about him to ask himself where the fuck are the Strike team? Why aren’t they intervening?  
The creature and Steve are thrashing in the water, churning up mud and silt as it gags on Steve’s fist. Steve is hunched over it, his shoulder muscles taut and straining. His feet are planted in the mud, his free hand dug into the creatures pelt. He looks like a marble statue, all hard lines and straining tendons. A tableau that belongs in an art gallery - _The Dumbass and the Demon_. Bucky feels a brief thrill of guilt and desire and a bunch of other tangled, messy things before resolutely shoving them to one side. He wades into the fray, grabbing hold of the creature by its shoulders and heaving it back.

It lets out a garbled moan, crashing back into the river where it writhes and howls, water churning around it. Steve utters a low, vehement curse, cradling his arm to his chest, and Bucky is torn between checking he’s okay and punching him in his idiot mouth.  
“What the _fuck_ , Steve?” Bucky snarls, sloshing further out into the water to grab the creature before it comes to its senses and tries to swim away from all the maniacs on land.  
“It works with dogs,” Steve rasps, before turning to check on Wanda. “You okay?”  
She’s huddled up in her brothers arms, shaking with the surge and crash of adrenaline, but manages a nod.  
Out in the currents, Bucky grabs the creature by the tail, digging his feet into the silt as it flails and howls.   
“Not so fast!” Bucky tightens his grip, silver fingers digging into the leathery folds of its tailfin. “What the fuck are you doing up here?”  
The creatures eyes roll and it barks at him, displaying blood-stained teeth. Steve’s blood.  
“I said what the fuck are you doing here?” Bucky twists his fingers, and the creature moans, uttering a string of vowels.  
“Säästä elämästäni!” The creature wails, and Bucky nearly drops the tail.   
He knows those words, where has he heard them before? Some old poem Dad made him recite. The fucking Kalevala, that was it. “Oh. Oh you are freaking kidding me.” Bucky hauls himself into the depths, waves crashing around him, and manages to get a better grip on the creature’s body. “Does anyone speak Finnish?” he yells.  
His question is met by confused silence. “Just my fucking luck.”

Steve comes down to water, still cradling his gnawed and slobbered on arm. “What is it?”  
“Iku-Turso,” Bucky shouts, giving the creature another shake and making it yowl. “Sea monster. The Bearded one, the Father of Diseases.” He looks at Steve’s arm, blood seeping into his shirtsleeve. “Aw, crap.”  
Iku-Turso squirms in his grip, throwing its weight around until Bucky flicks its ear.  
“Do you…” Steve hesitates, and Bucky can’t tear his gaze from the way his blood beads on his wrist and drips into the churning waters. “Can it be reasoned with?”  
“We need to get you back to the Doc,” Bucky says sharply, before turning his attention back to the mass of thrashing, barking creature in his arms. “You know the drill, get to fuck.”  
He lets go, and Iku-Turso dives into the water, making barely a ripple as it swims away. Bucky doesn’t hang around to celebrate, grabbing Steve by the shoulder and hustling him back to the van, trailing water up the rocky slope.  
“I’m fine,” Steve insists as Bucky shoves him onto the bench. “Really, it’s not that bad.”  
“Nat!” Bucky yells. “We gotta move. Now!”  
The twins scramble into the van with them, both looking pale and worried while Bucky grabs the first aid kit Steve keeps under the seat. He registers the sound of the engine starting up, and the faint buzz of Nat giving orders over the walkie talkie clipped to Steve’s belt.  
“Take off your shirt,” Bucky snaps, unzipping the kit and flipping it open.  
“Bucky!” Steve looks scandalised, and Bucky’s tail flicks irritably.  
“Shirt. Off.” Bucky finds a sachet of sterilised water and some dressings, and shoves the kit to one side. “Now.”

Wanda moves in to help Steve take off the shirt, careful to keep from jostling his arm too much. It looks worse than it probably is, several puncture wounds starting at the meat of Steve’s thumb and ending at the crook of his arm. The area around each bite is starting to swell, the skin flushed and blotchy as scabs start to form. Bucky takes hold of Steve’s arm, checking each bite for hair or dirt.  
“Thank you,” Wanda says quietly, and Steve gives her a tight smile.  
“Don’t encourage him,” Bucky growls, tearing open the sterilised water with his teeth and using it to flush out the worst of the wounds.  
Water pools on the floor of the van around Bucky’s feet, running in little rivulets across the floor whenever the van takes a sharp corner. Bucky sweeps his hair out of his face, damp and clinging, and works his way across Steve’s arm. Steve suffers Bucky’s attentions in helpful silence, holding pads of gauze in place while Bucky fusses over each puncture. He seems a little dazed at first, as though in shock, but it quickly passes.  
“What was that thing?” Pietro asks, still keeping close to his sister's side. Bucky has already checked twice that she is unharmed, and trying to figure out when he can get away with a third time.  
Steve shivers, folding his free arm over his bare midriff. His shirt is in pieces, and Bucky’s clothes are soaking, so he rummages around in the supplies until he finds a blanket. He shakes it out and throws it around Steve’s shoulders, ignoring his attempts to refuse.  
“What the hell was that thing?” Pietro asks, a little louder this time as Wanda quietly frets over Steve’s arm. The van isn’t exactly spacious but they’ve ended up cramped in one corner, in easy reach of each other, silently reassuring themselves and each other that they’re alright.  
“Iku-Turso,” Bucky explains. “A sea monster. You gotta give it a hard time, tell it to go home.”  
“Is that what you were doing?” Steve asks wryly, and Bucky gives him a light jab somewhere uninjured.  
“There’s this poem, the Kalevala, my old man must’ve made me read it a dozen times.” Bucky frowns to himself. “All kinds of weird shit, bleeding hairbrushes an’ this fella makes a wife out of gold. So this sea monster shows up over some mcguffin, an’ the hero grabs it by the ear and tells it to piss off back to where it came from.”  
“And that's all it takes?” Steve asks, looking unconvinced.  
Bucky shrugs. “Guess it depends on how you say it.”

It takes forever and no time at all to get back to base, and as soon as the engine is killed Bucky is out of the van, hauling Steve with him. Wanda and Pietro keep close as Bucky strides through the tunnels, barking at the nearest agent to open doors before Steve has a chance to reach for his keycard. It should be funny, the way they squeak and jump, but Bucky’s in no mood for laughing.  
Nat must have radioed in with an update, as Banner is waiting for them.  
“Hey Doc!” Bucky calls as he walks through the door, and Banner points to the waiting gurney.  
“Really, I’m fine,” Steve insists as Bucky sits him down, gesturing to Pietro to shut the door in case of gawkers.  
Banner fetches a package from one of the cupboards and tears it open; a plastic tray filled with packs of cotton and sachets of sterile water. He puts it on a metal table by the gurney, and looks up at the little crowd around Steve.  
“Full house, I see,” he says mildly. “Wanda, Pietro, are either of you injured?”  
“She fell over,” Bucky points to Wanda. “And nearly got bit.”  
“I see.” Banner turns his attention to Wanda. “Are you hurt?”  
“No,” she says. Bucky hisses, and Wanda glares at him. Okay, so maybe she’s fine. “Just a bit shaken.”  
Banner puts a hand on her shoulder, kindly and comforting. “That’s understandable. I prescribe a cup of tea and a sit down, watch some TV.” He glances over at Pietro. “You too. I know you’re worried about Steve, but Bucky and I are gonna take good care of him.”  
“I’m fine, guys,” Steve insists, giving Wanda a reassuring smile. “I’ll be right with you, okay?”  
Wanda gives him a one-armed hug, whispering something in his ear, and lets Pietro lead her out the room.

Banner opens the sterile water and pours it into the tray, opening up the pack of cotton wool balls and tipping them out too. “So you got into a fight with a demon walrus?”  
“Something like that,” Steve says ruefully.  
“He shoved his hand in the damn thing’s mouth,” Bucky grouses, stepping back so Banner can peel away the blanket and take a look at the arm. “That thing is the father of disease and this idiot stuck his hand in its mouth.”  
“It was going for Wanda,” Steve counters. “What else was I supposed to do?”  
“Well, Steve,” Banner takes in the state of Steve’s arm. “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”  
Steve ducks his head a little, silently acknowledging the teasing remark. Banner presses his thumb to each wound, turning Steve’s arm with careful hands. “Did you clean these yourself?”  
“Bucky did.” There’s a little bit of pride there, and some fondness. It makes Bucky’s skin itch.  
“Good work.” Banner looks up at him. “We’ll make a field medic of you yet.”  
“Just fix him, will ya,” Bucky mutters.  
Banner takes a little damp cotton wool and goes over each wound, rubbing away the forming scabs and letting thin trickles of blood flow down Steve’s arm.  
Bucky paces back and forth restlessly as he works. He’s never been bothered by the sight of blood, but it feels wrong to see it on Steve. It belongs in his body, not flowing freely across his skin.  
Satisfied, Banner wipes up the blood and starts applying adhesive dressings to each cut. “Well, you’re healing up nicely. No signs of infection, but I can give you a broad-spectrum antibiotic if you think you need it?”  
Steve shakes his head. “I’ll be fine without.”   
Bucky lets out a strangled yelp.  
“Okay, you get any swelling or…” Banner pasues. “You know the drill.”  
“Thank you, Bruce,” Steve murmurs as the last dressing is put in place.

Bucky watches them both, mouth open. “Are you kidding me?”  
Banner steps back from the gurney, pulling off his gloves with a snap-snap. “He’s fine, Bucky.” He walks over to a computer in the corner and starts typing up his notes.  
“Father of disease,” Bucky reminds him. “Sea monster.”  
“Bucky, I promise, I’m fine.” Steve holds out his arm, patchworked with dressings. “Be right as rain come morning.”  
“That reminds me,” Banner calls over his shoulder. “I still need you to come in for those tests.”  
“Sure thing,” Steve pulls his blanket over himself again. “I’ll come by tomorrow?”  
“Tests?” Bucky scowls. “What tests?”  
“Nothing serious,” Banner goes back to his typing. “Bloodwork mostly. Along with the physical changes, Steve’s metabolism has substantially altered following his encounter with his… Djinn, was it?” Steve hums in confirmation. “It’s working maybe four times faster than standard? Plus his body’s ability to break down toxins and parasitic invasions almost instantly.”  
Banner swivels around and looks closely at Steve. “Did you feel any symptoms at first? Any nausea, dizziness? Any indication of shock?”  
“Fever,” Steve replies. “Pain. A mild dissociative state that, yeah, could be shock. It passed after fifteen, maybe twenty minutes?”  
“Consistent with your experience in Iceland?” Banner presses. “With the injury and subsequent infection there?”  
Bucky stops pacing, and turns to stare at Steve. “What?”

\---

“Bucky,” Steve shouts after him, but fuck that. Bucky storms through the tunnel to the junction, glaring at the agents walking past. One of them will let him into the Zoo, or he’ll start cracking heads until he’s tasered and dragged down there.  
“Bucky, wait!” Steve shouts again, catching up to him, blanket trailing from his shoulders like a kid playing superheroes.  
Where the fuck is Barton when you need him? Bucky skulks over to the security gate and waits for Steve, who pulls out his keycard and swipes it over the scanner. The door buzzes open, and Bucky shoves his way through and storms down the tunnel. There are no agents down here, no passers by to listen in, so the next time Steve tells him to wait he comes to a stop.  
He folds his arms across his chest and waits. He’s pissed, so fucking furious that steam is starting to rise from his clothes, and starts counting his breaths before he catches fire.   
For all Steve’s insistence that Bucky wait up, he doesn’t seem inclined to actually _say_ anything once Bucky does. Or come any closer, standing a good arms length away.   
That hurts more than anything.  
“You got bit,” Bucky says quietly. “I saw it.”  
“I got _scratched_ ,” Steve retaliates, and Bucky glowers at him. “It itched. That’s all I really noticed. It itched for a bit, and by the time I went looking for you it had stopped.”  
“So you weren’t under some kind of influence.”   
“No.”  
This should be good news. It should be a relief to hear. Instead it makes Bucky feel sick to the stomach.  
“You don’t seem too thrilled,” is all he can think to say.

Steve walks over to the side of the tunnel and puts his back to the wall, his knees bent like he can’t take his own weight anymore. “I’m a nurse, Bucky. Professor Erskine hired me to be your nurse. Do you know what that means?”  
“You clean me up when I get the stuffing knocked outta me and bitch about my sugar intake.”  
Steve doesn’t laugh. He was supposed to laugh. “There’s a code of conduct. You don’t get intimate with patients. It affects your ability to do your job.”  
“But you still-”  
“I could lose my license.” Steve throws his uninjured arm up. “I could be brought in on a fitness-to-practice hearing and be found guilty of misconduct. And if by some miracle I wasn’t, you think Coulson would let me keep my job?”  
“Oh,” Bucky says softly. Gravity is doing something weird to his insides, tossing them around like water balloons, so he slumps over to the wall beside Steve to prop himself up until the laws of physics reassert themselves.  
His idiot mouth isn’t done yet, and before Bucky can stop it “That the only reason?” tumbles out.  
 _Stupid_.  
“It’s a pretty good one.” Steve tugs his blanket around himself. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, building up to saying something and crashing down again. Bucky waits in silence, he’s never been good with words, bullets and a decent right hook being more his style.  
“Thank you,” Steve says at last.   
Bucky frowns at him. “For what?”  
“Stopping. When you did.”   
Bucky grimaces. _Ouch_.   
“I mean.” Steve adds hesitantly, stumbling over his words. “You thought I was… Compromised. And you didn’t… Well, you didn’t take…”  
“Hey,” Bucky’s tail thumps irritably against the wall. “I know I’m kind of an asshole-”  
“Kind of,” Steve huffs.  
“But I’m not a complete bastard.”  
“No.” Steve smiles, brittle and pained. “You’re not.”  
Bucky presses his fingers against the wall behind him, silver and red. The tiles crack under the strain, and he lets himself feel envious for a moment, they have the luxury of breaking.  
“Well,” he sighs. “This sucks.”  
“Yeah.” Steve shuffles a little closer, moving inch by inch until their shoulders bump. “It does.”

There are things Bucky could say; stupid things, selfish things. He could ask if that was why Steve was training to be a field agent. Or warn him about Múspellsheimr, all the things Dad told him. He should tell Steve to get out of the SSR before someone got wind of what he was. It would only be a matter of time before someone noticed how quickly he healed, how fast he could run. That he was fireproof. And then he’d wind up on the wrong side of those security doors, another freak in the Petting Zoo.   
He should tell Steve to care for someone who deserves him. To not set his heart on an abomination.  
Instead he scrubs his silver hand through the air in front of his face, as if he could scour away the monster and reveal a man underneath.  
“I wish I could do something about this,” he hisses.  
“Nothing wrong with this,” Steve says gently, reaching out to touch his thumb to the dimple in Bucky’s chin. “You’re a good man, Buck.”  
He could cup his hand around Steve’s, press his lips to his palm, to the thin skin of his wrist and feel Steve’s pulse against his teeth. He doesn’t, shrugging it all off and stepping away, though Steve’s hand hovers in the air a moment after he’s moved away.  
“I’m neither of those things,” he huffs.  
“Yeah, you are.”  
He’s not. He’s a creature of the void, a harbinger of destruction. All he has to offer is fire and damnation.   
Bucky shakes himself off, pushing the oppressive weight off his shoulders. When his destiny comes calling he will fucking fight it, tooth and claw and big fuck-off bullets.  
“Well.” He clears his throat. “I’m gonna make you a promise. Two promises.”  
Steve’s mouth twists up, trembling a little. “Yeah?”  
“One.” Bucky spreads out his arms. “I’ll always look this good.”  
It’s delivered so matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather, and Steve coughs out a laugh. “Asshole.”  
“Two.” Bucky walks towards him again, standing close but not too close. “I won’t ever give up on you.”  
Steve crumbles a little, pitching towards Bucky but not quite reaching him. “Promise?”  
Bucky cups Steve’s face in his hands, silver and red, and presses their foreheads together. The cut-off bases of his horns, already starting to grow out a little, press wide crescents into his skin.  
“‘Till the end.”

***

Abraham Erskine is not a man prone to anxiety, but he knows fear, and he is afraid.  
It stirs the hairs at the base of his neck, where the spine is exposed and easily fractured. It shudders across his time-worn and slackened skin, shivers through his brittle bones.  
He has been in the business of monsters too long to ignore it, but can find no resolution in his books. There is no charm for undoing a young man’s mistake, no amulet against hubris. He moves from shelf to shelf in his library, both the extensive collection in the Zoo and his private archive in his quarters. Relics and fragments and thin tomes bound in human skin. He handles them warily, evil seeps from each page. But they offer no answers.

He does not have the innate skills of his son when it comes to the arcane, but knows enough. Enough to have seen something unfolding in the boy and give it direction. The sigils he has placed around the SSR are unobtrusive to the casual observer; an irregularity in the poured concrete floor, a scuff mark low down on the wall, a spiderweb in a corner.   
He is reading the Prose Edda again, retreading old ground in frustration, when he feels an absence. He straightens up, though it makes his old bones protest, and tips his head to one side. They do not flare up in warning, they simply cease to exist. He stretches out with his limited senses as one by one they are snuffed out.   
He closes his book and turns to the tank. “Luis?” he calls softly. “We have company.”  
There is a susurration in the depths, and Luis swims up to the glass. He frowns, branchial gills flaring as he opens his mouth wide, tasting. He swims up to the surface, licking at the air before diving down again.  
“Luis?”  
“N… Nothing.” Luis shakes his head. “You’re right, there’s something. There should be something, but it’s like there a… a gap where it oughtta be.”

The security door that leads to the library buzzes and clicks open, and something that resembles a man steps into the room.   
He pushes the door closed, his movements relaxed and assured. Comfortable in his own skin and at ease with the world. He’s wearing a tailored suit, single breasted in charcoal grey, the top button of his shirt unfastened, the jacket hanging open. He sweeps his tousled hair, blond streaked with grey, out of his eyes and takes a look around the room.  
“Dr Erskine?” he asks warmly. “Quite a place you’ve got here.”  
Erskine swallows, and with effort inclines his head politely. “Thank you.”  
Luis presses his hands to the glass of his tank, and recoils, darting into the depths before swimming around again. “What the-”  
“Whom.” Erskine swallows. It looks civil. It looks charming. But it smells of nothing, it moves like a serpent. And despite the harsh strip lights in the ceiling it casts no shadow. “Whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”  
“Very good.” He laughs softly, tucking his hands into his pockets as he saunters towards Erskine. “You have been courteous, and responded to courtesy. You’ve not acknowledged the use of your given name, or asked for my true name. Very good.” His smile sharpens. “But I am no changeling or fae, and have no patience for their rules.”  
Erskine closes his book and holds it to his chest. “I must call you something.”  
“Yes, I suppose you must.” He cocks his head to one side. “What does a knife do? A sharp, fine blade?”  
“Cut,” Luis hisses from the tank.  
“Wound,” Erskine adds, and he nods.  
“Hmm. Yes.” He considers the options carefully. “You can call me… Mr Pierce.”

Luis hisses, his mouth wide, and Erskine holds out a hand to settle him. “Very well.” He doesn’t take his eyes from the interloper. “Mr Pierce.”   
Pierce smiles again, deep crags forming around his mouth. “I knew you would understand. You’re very perceptive.”  
“And you should not have been able to get past security. What do you want?” Erskine has no interest in flattery, and can be something of a scalpel himself, when he must.  
Pierce pauses, putting his weight on one heel and pivoting back, flapping his hand absently. “We’ll come to that.”   
“I would know now.”  
Pierce ignores him, walking over to one of the bookcases and runs a thumb along a shelf. “I should thank you. You raised the child. Nurtured him. And now he is ready.”  
“Ready for what?” Luis practically shouts, bubbles rippling from his mouth.  
Pierce turns to him, as if noticing him for the first time. “His destiny.”  
“Bullshit!” Luis seethes, and Pierce ignores him, turning his attention back to Erskine.   
“He will reshape the world.” He tilts his head to one side in grudging acknowledgement. “And building a new world means tearing down the old one. Fire and destruction will rain down upon mankind, and he will preside over the ruins. King of a new era.”  
“With you whispering in his ear,” Erskine finishes, and Pierce makes a show of deference.  
“I would offer my wisdom and guidance, yes.”  
“Never gonna happen,” Luis’ voice is sharp in Erskine’s ears, like the scrape of metal over stones.  
Luis, brash and open hearted, gives Erskine a measure of courage. “I must agree with my colleague.”  
“Would you like to see?” Pierce wheels towards him. “You brought him to this, you should be rewarded.”  
He raises his hand, and Erskine recoils, throwing up his book like a shield -

_A city on fire. Smoke fills his lungs, hot and acrid. Erskine stumbles forward, his footfalls stirring up eddies of ash and embers amidst the litter of brick and bones. In the distance, against a blood-dimmed sky, great shapes writhe and twist, the low boom of their song shaking through his soul. Beneath them, he sees what remains of the city; the towers fallen, the boiling sea crashing over the ruins.  
He turns on his heel, looking for escape, for salvation, and sees the throne.  
A throne. A hill of bones. A nest. Perched atop it, his bare skin ruddy in the embers, is his son.  
He crouches over his domain, shoulders hunched as if bowed down by the weight of the thick, sleek horns curving out from his skull. Flames lick across his skin like beads of sweat, pour from the orange glow of his eyes like tears, circle above his brow like a crown.  
He turns, sensing Erskine’s presence, and lets out a low rumble. A jet of air streams from his nostrils, a shimmer of heat haze, and his mouth curls into a smile_

\- “No!” Luis shrieks, hauling himself out of his tank. He lunges for his breathing collar, but Pierce lets out a roar, whipping his hand and yanking it back, some invisible force throwing Luis to the ground.  
He crashes onto the concrete floor, letting out a wheezing gasp as Pierce grabs hold of him by the throat, skin hissing and searing as Pierce lifts him up into the air. He holds Luis at arms length, watching with mild interest as Luis grasps at his wrist and kicks out with webbed feet. The air fills with the sharp, acrid scent of charring flesh.  
“That’s enough,” Erskine demands, and Pierce tosses Luis to the side. He lands badly, catching his shoulder and hip as he rolls across the floor, finally coming to rest near the door.   
“I have you to thank,” Pierce says lightly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his hands. “If you had killed him seventy years ago, none of this would have come to pass.” He folds the handkerchief and tucks it back in his pocket. “How does it feel to know that your moment of weakness condemned mankind to death?”  
“It was not weakness,” Erskine shakes his head. “It was compassion. It was love.”  
Pierce grimaces, as if the word leaves a foul taste in his mouth. “Please.”  
“Your future will never happen,” Erskine sidesteps around Pierce, making his way towards where Luis is gasping for breath. “My son would never allow such a thing to happen. Bucky is-”  
“ _Bucky_ ,” Pierce sneers. “Has he told you his true name?” When Erskine makes no sound, Pierce sidles closer. “Would you like to know what it is?”  
“I know what to call him.” Erskine spares Luis a last glance, and hopes that help will come for him soon. “My son.”  
Pierce huffs irritably. “Are you done?”  
Erskine looks down at the book in his hands. There is so much he hasn’t done, so many things left unsaid.  
“Yes.”  
Pierce whips out his hand, and Erskine barely feels when it spears through his chest.

***

Steve does his best not to fidget, resting his knuckles on his hips and casting his gaze around Coulson’s office. It’s sparse and neatly ordered, like an extension of the man himself. No family photos on his desk, no framed pictures or certificates on the wall.  
Wanda, who had insisted on tagging along, clicks her tongue impatiently. Coulson’s fountain pen rolls slowly across the desk, coming to a halt at the edge when she clicks her tongue again.  
Coulson looks up from his paperwork, eyeing her suspiciously. She smiles politely, and he reaches out for the pen, putting it back where it was before.  
Steve signs whatever is put in front of him. He hands over his old keycard and scrawls on a receipt for it. He signs his new contract wherever Coulson has left a little pink strip of post-it note, leafing through the densely typed pages to each one, and finally hands it back for Coulson to add his own mark.  
The paperwork complete, Coulson makes a show of handing over Steve’s new keycard and walkie talkie. He’ll be required to take a firearm on assignments from now on, one more thing to deal with. Coulson stacks up the signed papers and shuffles them neatly before putting them in his filing cabinet, and Wanda rolls her eyes when his back is turned.  
Steve narrows his eyes at her, trying to telegraph a warning to behave. It has little effect, he sees her fingers working, threads of red flame licking over her nails. Nothing obvious happens, and Steve can only assume that next time Coulson gets up, he’ll find his shoelaces are tied together or his jacket has been stapled to his shirt.   
He should do something about it. Instead he clips the keycard and walkie talkie to his belt and says thank you.

“We should celebrate,” Wanda declares as soon as they are out of Coulson’s office, the door shut firmly behind them.  
“Yeah?” Steve adjusts the keycard at his hip. It’s no different from the old one as far as he can see, but still he fiddles with it. “You want to get your brother and we’ll go out? There’s a coffee shop in-”  
“If we’re celebrating Bucky should come with us.” Her tone is light, but there’s a hard edge to her words.  
“Wanda,” Steve sighs. “You know he’s not allowed up top. And besides…”  
The words dry up in Steve’s throat. He wouldn’t come anyway. Maybe he could be persuaded. Maybe they’d get a quiet moment and Steve could show him the new keycard, tell him what it meant. Maybe-  
“He should come with us.” Wanda gives him a sly look. “He’s why you’ve gone to all this trouble, right?”  
Steve comes to a stop, staring at her. Wanda smirks at him over her shoulder, and carries on down the tunnel.  
Is he that obvious? Steve stares after her. Was it Luis, did he say something to her? Was it _Bucky_?  
“Come on,” Wanda calls, and he hurries after her.  
He starts making vague plans. Barton must know a decent pizza place nearby, he can drive out and get them, maybe pick up some beer and they can have a celebration in the Rec Room. Maybe wait until after his first day on the new job before he starts sneaking Bucky out topside.  
“Come on.” Wanda leans against the security door to the Zoo, and Steve unclips the keycard.  
“This thing better work,” he says as he swipes it over the scanner.  
The light flicks from red to green, and he pushes the door open.

The first thing he sees as they enter the Library is Luis in a slick tangle on the floor, his body limp and motionless.  
“Luis!” He runs over to him, boots skidding on the wet floor. He’s not wearing his breathing cap, his external gills crumpled against his skull like wet paper. His throat is a blackened mess, thin curls of smoke still rising from the burned skin.  
How long has he been lying there? How long can he survive out of water?  
“Wanda!” Steve yells, but she doesn’t respond, staring open mouthed across the room. “Wanda, get his breathing cap!”  
She flinches when he shouts, but doesn’t move. Steve scoops Luis into his arms, slippery and lax, his tail hanging down like a dead weight. He turns towards the tank, searching for where the cap usually hangs. He can’t just drop Luis in the tank unconscious, he’ll sink to the bottom like a stone.  
Wanda is still frozen in place, and Steve finally follows her line of sight.  
Erskine is slumped in his chair, book pressed to his chest. His head hangs down, loose strands of wiry grey hair plastered to his cheeks. His glasses lie abandoned in the pool of blood at his feet.  
“No,” Steve whispers, stumbling forward, Luis heavy in his arms. He can’t help them both. “Wanda,” he says firmly. “Get the damn cap. Now.”  
She shudders into movement, half-running, half-falling as she hurries over to the tank, bumping into the frontage and patting frantically at the glass.

Steve carries Luis over to Erskine, laying him down on the floor.   
Blood has soaked into the seat of Erskine’s armchair, dripping down to soak into the rug and seep into the concrete floor. Four pints, maybe more, some part of Steve’s mind that isn’t screaming in panic offers, that strange wash of calm that used to flow over him out in the field.  
 _Breathe. That’s the first step. Breathe._  
He draws in a slow, measured breath, and unclips the walkie talkie from his belt. There’s no sign of struggle, but there is no way this was an accident.  
“Central, this is Rogers down in the Zoo. Do you read?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “We have a breach of security, there have been hostiles in the facility. Agents down, I repeat we have agents down. Erskine and the Fish.”  
Wanda drops to her knees beside him, and he slides over to Erskine while she fits Luis’ cap in place. He presses two fingers to Erskine’s throat, skin cold and clammy, and feels for his pulse.  
Four pints, maybe more. He’s already in hypovolemic shock.  
There’s a burst of static from his walkie talkie, but Steve barely registers what it says.  
“Fetch Bucky,” he rasps as Wanda sits back, cupping her hand to Luis’ cheek as his branchial gills start to fan out.  
“Wha-”  
“Now.” Erskine’s body is already failing, organs shutting down, his pulse rapid against Steve’s fingers. “We don’t have much time.”  
Wanda moans, low and wounded, and is on her feet before Steve can say another word.

Steve pulls back the book still pressed to Erskine’s chest and sees the cause of the blood loss. A ragged hole in his sternum, threads of cotton from his punctured shirt embedded in the wound. He puts the book back quickly. The wound must go straight through his chest, the pressure of book and chair back against it keeping him from bleeding out instantly.  
There’s nothing he can do. If he was in a well stocked trauma ward surrounded by doctors there would still be nothing he could do.  
Luis shifts slightly, his tail uncurling, and Steve returns to him. He knows next to nothing about his physiology, but has seen plenty of natural history shows, and grabs the folded blanket Erskine keeps on the back of his other chair. He carries it over to the tank, and tries not to think about the times he’s seen Erskine dozing over a glass of schnapps while Bucky carefully drapes the blanket over him.  
The lid is open, and Steve drops the blanket into the green-tinged water, barely giving it a chance to soak before hauling it out again, water sloshing on the floor. He unfurls it, heavy and dripping, and lays it over Luis. He goes over him quickly, clumsily, covering him from head to toe and tucking his tail in place. In his hurry he must spray some water, because Erskine flinches, turning his head to one side and letting his book slip.

“Hey,” Steve says gently, crouching down in front of Erskine. He pushes the book back in place, murmuring an apology when Erskine winces. “I know, I’m sorry.”  
“My… ss… Bucky…” Erskine wheezes, and Steve clasps his hand, squeezing tight.  
“It’s okay, he’s coming.” Tears prick at Steve’s eyes as Erskine breathes in short, rapid pants. “Just hold on.”  
“You mustn’t… He mustn’t go… ” Erskine rasps.  
“Shh.” Steve curls his hand around the old man’s wrist, feeling the flutter of his pulse. He should be able to do something why can’t he _do_ something? “Save your strength.”  
“Listen.” Erskine’s eyes widen. “They will come back. For him.”  
“Who?” Steve asks. A stupid question. Whoever dragged Luis out of his tank to suffocate and punched a hole through Erskine’s chest. Whoever left him to die alone and afraid.  
“The world will burn.” Erskine shakes his head, blood staining his lips. “He’ll destroy it all.”  
Steve falters. Does he mean Bucky? “He’d never let that happen.” He has to stop, gulping down air like a man drowning. “It’s okay, shhh.”  
Erskine’s mouth twists up, a trickle of blood escaping from his lips and soaking into his beard, darkening the grey hairs. “Don’t let him forget.” Each word is a struggle, his body slowly shaking apart.  
“Forget what?” Steve spares a look over at the door. Where’s Wanda? Where’s Bucky? He needs to be here.  
Erskine presses a pale, cold finger to his chest, nail digging into the skin above his heart. He opens his mouth, pressing his tongue to his teeth as if to speak, but no sound comes forth.  
Abraham Erskine breathes his last, a faint exhale, and his hand falls away as he slumps sideways in his chair.

Steve sits back on his heels, pressing the back of his wrist to his mouth. There’s blood on his shirt, blood soaking into his pants. His face is wet, twin tracks spilling down his cheeks. Something vast and overwhelming claws its way up his throat, heaving great sobs that, if he let them, would overwhelm him, would tear the heart out of him.  
He straightens up, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. It’s pointless, for every tear he wipes away a dozen more take its place, but he brushes them away all the same. He tears himself away from the body, and drags himself over to Luis, swaddled in his blanket.   
Salt water won’t hurt him, and Steve peels back the cover as the door crashes open and boots clatter on the concrete floor.  
If he’s lucky he will only lose one friend today.


	7. Sviga Lævi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He said you were pretty,” Peggy announces.  
> Steve lets out a startled gasp, turning to give Bucky a chastising look.  
> “Quit it, Pegs,” Bucky mumbles, before taking a deep interest in the curtain folds.  
> Steve turns back to see Peggy grinning, and can’t help but smile with her. “What else did he say about me?”  
> She tilts her head to one side. “Now wouldn’t that be telling.”

It seems a cruel joke that the day of the funeral is one of blue skies and changing leaves. As summer turns to fall, the trees carefully planted around the tranquil little cemetery in Queens are a riot of colour, green and yellow and red.  
Steve sits quietly at the back of the room during the service, keeping his head bowed as a succession of strangers; former and current agents of the SSR both local and international, along with historians and students of the arcane take their turns on the podium. They might as well have been describing the life of yet another stranger for all the sense it made to Steve. He had known Erskine as a kindly, reserved old man with a love for books, but the people taking the stand talk of a soldier, a diplomat, a brawler.   
Steve’s eyebrows rise up a few times at the anecdotes told by his old friends and colleagues, and Wanda reaches over to grasp his hand. He takes hold of it gratefully, giving her a weak little smile. Sat on her other side is Pietro, and beyond him a handful of SSR agents. Coulon is sat up in the front row, as far from Steve as he can manage.  
If it’s a cruel joke that Abraham Erskine is buried on a warm day in September, then it’s just cruel that his son is not there to bury him.  
Steve had argued with Coulson over it. He had bribed and cajoled and finally towered over him, teeth clenched and fists balled, and still Coulson had refused.

The service over, they file out of the building and walk down to the graveside. It’s a pleasant little spot, in surroundings more like a park than a graveyard. The open grave lies in the shade of a White Oak by a lake, and Steve has learned enough about the occult to recognise the marks of protection and warding hidden around the site. Coulson had at least let Bucky have the final say on where his father was laid to rest, even if he couldn’t bear witness.   
Steve glances back at the building as the last of the mourners come out. The Celebration Hall is pleasant enough, a white painted building with high, two-storey arched windows that let in the light. On the curved arches of the roof he sees movement, something large and low, tracking the movement of the mourners.   
It turns its head, and Steve sees familiarity in it’s profile; the jut of his chin and the aborted curve of his horns.  
 _Bucky_.  
He looks away before anyone else notices him staring, but doesn’t join the circle forming around the grave.

Barton of all people walks over to join him, wearing a crumpled black suit that makes him look more like a crook than someone recently bereaved.  
“Hey,” he mutters, wiping his nose with his thumb.  
“Barton,” Steve answers. “Didn’t think you’d be here.”  
“Yeah, well.” Barton shrugs. “My buddy needed a ride.”  
Steve looks around, but doesn’t see Nat among the black hats and suit jackets. Does Barton even know anyone else at the SSR?  
“Nice service,” Barton tilts his head towards the Celebration Hall. “You think he really shot zombie H-”  
“Yes.” Steve clips out, then gives Barton an apologetic look. “Sorry.”  
“Don’t be.” Barton gives him a light pat on the back. “For all the shit we see on the regular, death still makes us all squirrelly. Be weird if it didn’t.”  
Wanda weaves through the crowd, seeking Steve out, and holds out her hand. Steve murmurs and apology to Barton and pushes through the throng towards her. He takes Wanda’s outstretched hand, letting her squeeze as hard as she needs to, and looks down at the casket already in the ground.   
He stares at the straight sides of the grave, a perfect rectangle cut out of the earth. At the length of artificial turf laid over the mound of earth. Lies, all of them. Lies and subterfuge, the sparse reality of dying poking out from behind the curtain.

Before the service there had been a viewing. A sterile little room where the open casket was left for people to spend a last moment with the body before it was committed to the earth. Wanda had spent a long time with the body, whispering softly before tucking a silver ring into the casket, Pietro at her shoulder.  
Steve had barely managed a minute, guilt and remorse clamouring at his heels. He had no token or charm to give, though the other mourners had plenty, dressing the body with silver and gold and beaten copper. White daisies had been placed over his eyes, bundles of rowan twigs and willow leaves tucked around his body.  
When his Ma died Steve had looked on the trappings of death, of his mother in her good shoes and Sunday dress, and thought it all a waste. Sarah Rogers was gone, and they were fussing over meat and bones, once a person beautiful and bright.  
Now he’s not so sure.  
He had seen Bucky’s hand in some of the talismans laid over Erskine’s breast, and an odd, misshapen ache in his chest had eased a little. If he was here, he would have had a moment alone with his father, though not for the final words Erskine had been so desperate to share.  
Steve glances back at the Celebration Hall, hoping for another glimpse of him, but there is no sign.  
The last rites are spoken over the body, and the crowd disperses for the burial, the heavy clatter of dirt on wood too much to bear. Steve walks up to the gravestone and runs his fingers over the blocky, curved text inscribed there, tracing the six points of the star with something like fondness.  
“Ar dheas Dé go raibh a anam,” Steve says under his breath, because that’s what his mother would have said, and follows the mourners to the parking lot.

He checks around the Hall and parking lot while people mill around in the foyer and discuss the funeral, but can’t find Bucky anywhere. He even walks back to the grave while the mourners start separating, some returning to work and home while others discuss places to get a drink and hold an impromptu wake.  
By the time Steve comes back from his search the lot is almost empty, Barton’s van and his bike the only familiar vehicles left.  
“You alright there, Steve?” Barton seems to have appeared out of nowhere, but in reality he’s sneaking a cigarette behind one of the trees. He looks at his fingernails, and flicks ash from the tip of his cigarette. “Don’t tell Nat.”  
“I’m sworn to secrecy,” Steve mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets.  
“Thanks, man.” Barton takes a furtive puff. “What you hanging around for?”  
Steve hesitates. He’s nothing against Barton, he seems a nice enough guy for a walking disaster. But he doesn’t want to admit he saw Bucky earlier, he’ll be in a world of trouble when Coulson figures out he’s gone as it is.   
How did he get out?  
“Just… looking for a friend,” Steve says vaguely. “Guess he already left.”  
Barton sucks on his cigarette, drawing the burning ember down to the filter, and lets out a satisfied exhale. He stubs it out on the sole of his boot, and after giving Steve a sideways look dumps the filter in an unobtrusive little trash can near the door.  
“Give me your phone.”  
Steve gives him a quizzical look, but takes his phone out of his pocket and hands it over. Barton grabs it, opening up Google maps and typing out an address.  
“You didn’t get this from me,” he says, handing the phone back.  
Steve looks at the address, the directions to it already up on the screen. “A retirement home?”  
He looks up, but Barton is already in his van, gunning the engine and pulling away.

***

The retirement home is tucked away on York Ave a block away from the East River. Steve pulls into the small parking area in front of the building, leaving his bike under the shade of a tree. He takes off his helmet and props it on the seat. Since it’s a warm day, he unzips his leather jacket too, sweat making his shirt stick to his back, and walks up to the main entrance. He climbs the steps and rings the doorbell, waiting with his hands folded in front of him for someone to answer.  
He has no idea what he’s doing. No idea what he’s going to say when someone answers other than ‘Have you seen a big red guy lately?’  
The door opens and a pretty, blonde-haired nurse looks out. “Hi. Can I help you?”  
Steve clears his throat, moving his hands to his hips. “Uh. Yeah.” Her name tag reads ‘Sharon’. “I was here to pay a visit?”  
She looks at his chest, rather than his face, and Steve realises a moment too late that his talisman must have worked its way out from under his shirt. He wraps his hand around the silver disc, tucking it away out of sight.  
“You must be here to see Peggy,” the nurse smiles. “Come on, let’s get you signed in.”

Inside, the home is clean and well maintained, with tall windows that let in the sunlight. Sharon signs him in and leads him upstairs. They take a detour while she ducks in on a handful of residents sitting in a communal area on a terrace, making the most of the sunny day and playing board games. Sharon takes a quick walk around, saying hello and checking on each of them. They all coo and whistle at the sight of Steve, trailing around behind her, so Sharon hurries him along before they can gang up on him.  
“How many residents do you have?” Steve asks curiously.  
“Variable.” She takes a left turn down a hallway. “We offer short-term rehabilitation for those recovering from illness or hospital treatment, as well as palliative care for those at end-of-life, like Peggy.”  
“Oh.” Steve has seen no shortage of death, but palliative care is perhaps the hardest. “What’s her-”  
“You’re with the SSR?” Sharon cuts him off.  
“Uh.” Steve purses his lips. “Can I say that’s classified?”  
Sharon laughs. “Okay, whatever gets you through the day.” She gestures to a door. “She’s in there, along with _Classified_. Don’t tire her out, okay? There’s a panic button by the bed if you need it.”

Steve taps on the door, waiting to hear a muffled “Come in” before turning the handle and pushing it open. Though he’s not sure what to expect, the elderly woman lying in bed doesn’t surprise him, the soft waves of her grey hair framing her careworn face. Bucky, perched on the edge of the bed, does.  
“What the hell?” Bucky hisses, on his feet and making for the open window before the woman, Peggy, has had a chance to look round.  
“You must be Steve,” she says warmly, holding out her hands. “Come here, let me take a look at you.”  
Bucky doesn’t go as far as jump out of the window, but it’s close. He skulks in the corner of the room instead, the drawn curtains billowing gently in the breeze. He puts his back to Steve, his broad shoulders telegraphing irritation.  
“Oh, don’t sulk,” Peggy chides, and gestures again for Steve to come closer.  
He walks over to the side of the bed, turning his back on Bucky and the window. Bucky could be out the window and off gods-knows-where in a second, but instead of worrying Steve pulls a nearby chair up to the bedside and sits down.   
Peggy takes hold of his hands, feeling their weight like some ancient god setting him against the scales of righteousness. Whatever she finds must please her, as her grip eases, her hands wrinkled and cool to the touch. She is wearing a silver ring on her right hand, made of a delicate chainmail as if it had been crafted with knitting needles the size of pins. Steve recognises Bucky’s work, there and in the slim silver charms around her neck, and the intricately carved flask on the table beside her.  
“He said you were pretty,” Peggy announces.  
Steve lets out a startled gasp, turning to give Bucky a chastising look.  
“Quit it, Pegs,” Bucky mumbles, before taking a deep interest in the curtain folds.  
Steve turns back to see Peggy grinning, and can’t help but smile with her. “What else did he say about me?”  
She tilts her head to one side. “Now wouldn’t that be telling.”

It’s hard not to love Peggy Carter. Even confined to bed there is a spark to her, a sly wit and an irrepressible charm. He sees a lot of Bucky in the way she holds her frail body with confidence, her sharp tongue and dry humour. Much like Bucky she also delights in making Steve blush.  
While they talk Bucky sulks in the corner, making the occasional pained noise when some embarrassing story from his childhood comes up. But he makes no attempt to cut things short or kick Steve out. For all his grumbling, he looks happy to see her smiling.  
“Bucky, darling,” Peggy chides. “I do wish you’d let your horns grow. You look so handsome with them.”  
“Pegs,” Bucky grouses. “I get enough funny looks as it is.”  
“Oh, tosh.” she flaps her hand at him, then turns to Steve, all sweetness. “Steven, can you fetch me that?”  
She points to a photo album tucked in the cubby hole of her bedside table. Steve dutifully brings it out, laying it on her lap while Bucky groans.  
“Now, let me see.” Peggy’s hands shake a little, but she turns the thick pages of the album, pausing over the photographs arranged neatly within.  
Steve leans in closer, catching glimpses of a young woman with thick brown curls and glossy lips that must have been her in her youth. Peggy pauses on a group shot, a disparate group of Allied Soldiers, Erskine at the center looking painfully young, younger than Steve is now. In his arms is a child, one arm a white blur in the camera flash.  
She turns a few more pages, and Steve sees European cities and unfamiliar faces go by, until she finds what she’s looking for. Bucky, no more than fifteen at Steve’s guess. His ruddy skin is sepia in the photo, his horns sweeping up and back from his forehead in a graceful curve.  
“See?” Peggy says proudly. “Didn’t I tell you he looked handsome?”  
Steve smiles at the picture. In it Bucky is standing with his arms folded and his chin raised, puffed up like a peacock. “Cute,” he declares.

Peggy leafs through the rest of the pages, tracing the edges of each photograph. “Remember when you were sixteen, Bucky?”  
“No,” comes the sullen reply.  
“Yes you do.” Peggy leans in to Steve conspiratorially. “We took him topside to run around in the woods, work off a little steam, and he got stuck in a tree.”  
Bucky curses softly, and Peggy chuckles to herself. “Got caught on a low branch. When we finally found him an hour later he was still dangling there, face like thunder.”  
Her laughter quickly becomes a coughing fit, and Steve fetches her a glass of water from the table, supporting its weight with a finger while she clutches it with birdlike hands.  
“Little sips,” Steve coaches, watching her closely. She pushes the glass away when it’s half empty, putting a hand to her chest.  
“Hmn. Excuse me,” she swallows once. Twice. Then looks up at Steve.  
Her expression changes in an instant, bright and amused becoming guarded, alarmed.   
“Peggy?” Steve asks cautiously.  
“Who are you? Where’s Sharon?” She looks around the room, catching sight of Bucky in the corner.  
Her mouth drops open, a dry, rasping sound of absolute terror crawling up her throat as she starts to shake. Steve lunges for the panic button as she begins to wail, but Bucky is faster, crossing the room in an instant and crouching down beside her. There is a charm dangling from a chain in his right hand, pulled from one of the pouches on his belt. He cups his hand to her cheek, even as she thrashes away from his reach, eyes wide. In her panic she cracks him in the jaw with a fist, and Bucky shakes it off, caressing her parchment skin and uttering strange words in a bass thrum that Steve can feel through the floorboards.  
There is a dull taint of hot metal in the air as Bucky speaks, a shimmer of heat haze on his breath.  
“It’s a dream, Peggy.” Bucky strokes her cheek, projecting calm even though he is anything but. His hands are shaking, the charm in his hand shivering. His eyes water, pale blue tinged with amber. “Just a dream.”  
Steve quickly gets to his feet. He pulls the chair out of the way, and Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, never once breaking his contact with Peggy.  
She slowly settles, though she is still agitated. “A dream?”  
“Yeah.” Bucky eases her down onto the pillows, pulling the bedding around her straight. “Old… old memories, nothing more.”  
She frowns, not seeing Bucky, or the tears starting to spill down his cheeks. “The _Ifrit_. The one in Hell’s Kitchen?”  
“That’s right.” Bucky brushes his knuckles against her cheek, the charm brushing her skin. “Get some sleep, Peggy. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Steve retreats to the door, giving them as much space as he can while still being in the room. Peggy’s breaths even out, and before long she is sleeping peacefully. Steve keeps his head down, his hands folded over his stomach, and pretends not to see Bucky wiping his nose on his sleeve, his breathing erratic.  
“Alzheimer’s,” Bucky rasps, gathering up the charm and tucking it back in the pouch on his belt.  
“Progressive deterioration.” Steve answers, and snaps his mouth shut. He hates himself a little for that, that his first reaction is not sympathy or reassurance, but diagnosis.  
“I used to visit at night.” Bucky leans forward to tuck one of Peggy’s stray hairs in place. “But she got worse in the evenings.” He swallows audibly. “Ain’t so easy to get over here these days.”  
Steve bites his lip, worrying at it. “I could bring you?”  
Bucky affords him a glance. “Appreciated, but no. You can’t.”  
“There’s gotta be a-”  
“Steve.” Bucky sighs, raking his fingers through his hair, a little gesture of self-soothing that makes him look so _human_.  
“At least let me take you home,” Steve offers.   
Bucky snags the blanket at the foot of Peggy’s bed, throwing it around himself like a cloak. He pulls an edge over his head, hooking it over his horns, and walks over to open the window.  
He’s hunched over, ashamed, and Steve takes a step towards him. “Bucky, it’s not-”  
“See ya.” He slips through the gap easily, and disappears from sight.

Steve utters a soft curse, resting his hands on his hips and bowing his head. Shit.  
He wipes his hand across his mouth, pulling himself together, and goes over to the window. The last thing he wants is Peggy catching a chill from a draught, so he pulls the window closed and rearranges the curtains, letting in a shaft of daylight.  
He walks over to the bed to check on Peggy, taking her wrist and checking for a pulse. It’s steady and strong, and he runs a thumb over her knuckles. When she was faced with something terrifying, when she thought Bucky was a monster, she had fought back. And although Steve’s heart aches to see Bucky’s friend turn on him so suddenly, no small part of him admires her courage.  
He slips out of the room silently, padding down the hall in search of Sharon. He finds her downstairs busy with charts.  
“Hi.” Steve doesn’t give her a chance to respond. “Peggy had an aggressive episode. She’s fine,” he adds quickly. “She calmed down pretty quickly and… and went to sleep.”  
Sharon sets her papers down. From the pinched look on her face this isn’t the first time it’s happened.  
“Is Bucky alright?”  
“Got clocked on the jaw.” Sharon smiles at that. “But he’s fine.”  
“She forgot who he was?”  
“Yeah.”  
Sharon’s mouth twist up. “Damn. Doesn’t happen often, Bucky wouldn’t keep coming if it was a risk.” She sighs and flicks through her papers, looking for a file. “Damn shame.”  
Steve hesitates before asking. “You know Bucky?”  
“Peggy’s my aunt.” Sharon finds what she’s looking for. “Hell, I had planned on working for the SSR myself, follow in her footsteps.”  
“What happened?” Steve asks.  
“I’d always be Peggy’s niece.” She shrugs. “Guess I wanted to do my own thing, y’know?”  
Steve nods, understanding. He’d felt the same about going into nursing, it must have been three or four years before someone called him by his own name rather than ‘Sarah’s boy’.  
“Aggression is something I’ve mostly seen in late stage Alzheimer’s. But Peggy seem very…” He pauses, searching for the right word. There isn’t one.  
“You’ve seen all the little silver doohickeys Bucky’s given her, right?” Steve nods. “They help, I’ll give him that. But some things no charm can fix.”  
Steve drops his gaze. “I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be.” Sharon gives him a tired smile. “Any good day is a blessing, right?”  
Steve mumbles an agreement, and Sharon nods to the door. “Go get the big idiot. Last time he hung around one of the ladies caught sight of him, thought Christmas had come early.”  
Steve coughs out a laugh. “Christmas?”  
“Something about Krampus, he’d come for Barbara down the hall.” She makes a shooing gesture. “Go on, scat. I’ve work to do.”

Steve finds Bucky skulking in the bushes at the side of the building, out of sight of the residents. He’s still wrapped up in Peggy’s blanket, looking a sorry sight.  
“Hey, Buck.” Steve pushes his way into the bushes and sits on the compacted dirt beside him. “She’s got a mean right hook.”  
“Yeah.” Bucky grimaces, working his jaw until it clicks.   
“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs. “For busting in on you.”  
“Nah.” Bucky rubs his chin absently. “It was good. Up until it… wasn’t.”  
Steve bumps their shoulders together. “We should do this again.”  
“What, sit in a bush?”  
“No.” Steve gives his shoulder another nudge. “Come see Peggy.”  
“That ain’t such a great idea.” Bucky leans away a little. “I shouldn’t have come here at all.”  
“Yeah, you should.” Steve lets him shift away. “She’s family.”  
When Bucky doesn’t reply, Steve gets to his feet. “Come on, I’m hungry. You wanna get something to eat?”  
“What?” Bucky snorts. “You think we can just walk into a restaurant? _Look at me_!”  
Steve tips his head to one side, looking him up and down. “I can’t go to a restaurant, I’ve got mud on my pants.” He pats his thigh, brushing away crumbs of dry dirt. “Best I can manage is drive through. Find a quiet park to eat in.”  
Bucky huffs. “You’re a cheap date, Rogers.”  
It’s not a date, not really, no matter how much Steve would like it to be. But he’s not about about to ask five minutes after seeing Bucky’s father in the ground.  
Soon, though. Maybe he can get Barton to help him out. If they can’t go topside he can figure out something, even if it’s just moving a table and chairs to an empty office and eating takeout pizza.  
“I am,” Steve smiles. “But you get to pick what we eat.”  
For a minute Steve thinks Bucky is gonna tell him to go fuck himself, but he finally holds out his hand, silver shining in the light filtering through the leaves. “Tacos. An’ I ain’t putting out until the third date.”  
“Wouldn’t expect any less.” Steve takes his hand and hauls him to his feet.

***

“Hey, Doc?” Bucky taps lightly on the doorframe, gaining Banner’s attention. “How’s he doing?”  
Banner points across the room, to where a specialised tank has been set up. “Ask him yourself.”  
“He’s awake?” Bucky follows Banner’s directions, walking over to the long, shallow tank set up at waist height against the far wall. Inside Luis is stretched out on a bed of gravel, a pump and filtration system keeping the water moving around him. His external gills fan out around his head, waving gently in the current like fronds of seaweed. There’s scarring at his throat, four fingers and a thumb scorched into his flesh. If Bucky ever finds the thing responsible...  
He clasps the open side of the tank and peers into the water. “How’s it goin’, Tilapia? You need some chili sauce?”  
Luis’ mouth stretches wider. “Wouldn’t say no to a taco.”  
 _Damnit_. Bucky gives his lips a surreptitious wipe as Banner looks over.  
“No solids until you’ve healed,” Banner says firmly before returning to his work.  
“Sorry, man,” Bucky murmurs, reaching into the water to take his hand.  
Luis clasps it, linking their fingers together. He hums to himself, listening to all the things Bucky is willing to share. “How was the funeral?”  
“Alright.” Bucky rests his chin on the rim of the tank. “Went with Barton. It was a good turnout, few of his old paramours from the European days showed up, told a few stories to traumatise the youth.”  
“ _Playa_ ,” Luis sing-songs.  
“Heh.” Bucky sniffs, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. “He’s under White Oak and Rowan. So. That’s good.”  
Luis squeezes his hand. “How was the date?”  
Bucky tries to pull free, but the shit has little suckers all over his palms, and he’s stuck fast. He gives in gracelessly, slumping against the tank. “It wasn’t a-”  
“Dude, the guy takes you for a romantic picnic and you’re saying it wasn’t a date?”  
“It was tacos on a golf course,” Bucky huffs.  
“It was a date,” Luis grins. “If there was kissing it was a date.”   
Bucky’s skin is bright red from the horns on his head to the toes on his feet. It shouldn’t be possible to get any redder.   
There had been a kiss. Steve had tasted like onion and cilantro, because the dumbass choose some kind of supergreens bullshit when there had been Puerco pibil in the menu. Who the hell chooses kale when there’s slow roasted pork to be had?  
Luis takes Bucky’s silence as confirmation and flicks his tail, taking immense pleasure in soaking Bucky’s shirt. Bucky brushes off the worst of the water, his body heat soon turning the rest to steam as he falls into silence, tracing his thumb along Luis’ long, slim fingers.  
“Go ahead,” Luis murmurs. “Ask.”  
Bucky heaves out a breath, and Luis wraps both hands around his, waiting patiently.  
“Show me,” Bucky asks at last. “Show me what happened.”

_The view of the Library is distorted, seen through glass and saltwater. Though the view is unclear, Bucky can see the echo of movement through the room, electromagnetic pulses bouncing back and forth as Luis turns his attention to the interloper_. (Bucky closes his mind to Luis’ chatter, a burbling stream of unnecessary details. He wants a face, a name. He wants revenge).  
 _Not a man. It wears the form of a man but it is anything but.  
There is a heat signature, a trail of fire that follows him across the room. He turns to the tank, a brief appraisal before dismissing the contents.  
The Library crumbles away, revealing a vision of fire and ruin_. (Bucky sees himself, the thing that he could have been, could still become, crouched atop a mound of bones. Between its horns a burning crown sits atop its head as it looks over its domain. All of creation turned to ashes and cinders, soot clinging to the beasts tattered clothing, to its crooked hands).  
 _Luis screams_ (the sound is like a flare of blinding white light, piercing through Bucky’s mind) _hands thumping against the glass. He climbs up, righteous fury making his tail thrash and his jaws champ_. (idiot, stay down) _The creature has him by the throat, fingers digging into his flesh and burning his skin_ (Bucky feels the blisters bubbling up along the edges of each finger, pain making him almost insensate) _before casting him aside.  
He can’t breathe, gills slick against his skull_ (Luis shushing him, counting down each breath in and each breath out) _and powerless to stop what comes next.  
The interloper, his task complete, takes the book from Erskine’s_ (dad) _hands. He moves his hands, drenched in the blood of a good_ (dad, get up) _man, over the pages before letting them fall closed, and pressing the book savagely to the open wound.  
The interloper pulls a square of cloth from his pocket, whistling as he fastidiously wipes the blood from his hands._

Luis reaches for Bucky’s hand as he recoils, sending water cascading over the side of the tank. Banner lets out a shout of alarm, rushing over to quiet Luis down as Bucky retreats from his side.  
“Bucky, wait!”   
Luis is still in his head, digging in his claws and Bucky can’t shake him off.  
“C’mon buddy, settle down,” Luis pleads, and Bucky forces himself away, lumbering across the room, knocking over trays of utensils and crashing into cabinets as he shoulders his way out the door. He needs a minute alone with his thoughts, a chance to get himself together.  
Then hunt whoever the bastard is down and kill him slow.  
“Bucky, please. Come on, man!” The sound of Luis’ voice fades from his ears as Bucky stumbles down the tunnel. He needs to get to the Library, find out what’s in that book.  
“Don’t go doing shit you might regret.” Luis’ words thrum through his bones, because he’ll never get far enough away to block him out completely. They’ve broken bread together, gotten drunk together, and long ago he let Luis stake out a place in his heart.  
“I won’t regret it,” Bucky hisses. “He killed my father, his ass is _mine_.”

Bucky doesn’t get far before running into one of the SSR agents on duty. What was the guy’s name? Collins? Rollins? Looks like a weasel on steroids, all pinched features and too much hair gel.  
“Hold up,” he snarls, his palm up in Bucky’s face.  
“Fuck off,” Bucky growls, and tries to shove past him. The guy goes for a fucking stun baton holstered at his hip, and when did agents start carrying shit like that around? Or threaten to use them on co-workers?  
“Assets are not permitted to walk around the upper levels unsupervised.” The guy, and Bucky is pretty sure it’s Rollins, draws out the stun baton, thumb hovering over the trigger.  
“Since when?” Okay, so technically speaking, he was supposed to be supervised outside the Zoo, but that only got enforced when he was grounded, otherwise Barton or one of the others would buzz him through if he wanted to grab something from the canteen or go up to the Infirmary. Hell, Pietro was in and out all the damn time, flirting with Nat and fucking with Coulson.  
“Security protocols were upgraded this morning.” He twitches the baton in Bucky’s direction. “Get back to your quarters.”  
The baton probably won’t hurt him, his fucked-up demonic constitution makes him fireproof and bulletproof, not that Coulson knows about all that. It’ll sting like a bastard, though. Bucky steps closer, putting himself right in Rollin’s face, the end of the baton pushing into his hip. He bares his teeth. “Make me.”

“Agent Rollins?”  
Bucky doesn’t need to look around to know it’s Steve. _Damnit_.   
Steve puts his hand on Rollins’ arm, pushing him firmly away. The fuckers eye twitches as he tries to push back, but Steve is bigger and stronger. Throughout their little dick-swinging contest Steve keeps up a running chatter.  
“Thank you for your diligence, but it was unnecessary, I was just in conversation with the Directors.” He turns to give Bucky a disappointed look. “You were supposed to wait in the Infirmary.”  
“Huh?”  
“Yeah, I understand. Luis is still recovering, and needs his rest. I’m sorry the meeting took longer than expected.” He turns back to Rollins, giving him a blinding smile that’s only borderline baring his teeth. “Bucky is my responsibility, I’d ask you not to intervene again.”  
Rollins scowls. “But-”  
“C’mon, Buck,” Steve says with forced cheer. “Let’s go.” He tugs on Bucky’s arm, and Bucky takes a second to give Rollins a sneering grin, the greasy fucker can tuck his limp little prick between his legs and run on home.  
Steve gives arm another pull, less patient this time, and Bucky lets himself be led away.

“What the hell was all that?” Bucky hisses as soon as they’re out of earshot.  
Steve lets out a growl of irritation. “Since your father passed, the Strike team have been pushing for more restrictions. And while Hill flat out refused most of them, they did encourage them to ‘use their initiative’ when it came to defensive measures.”  
“What the hell does that mean?” Bucky glances surreptitiously at the agents walking past.  
Steve waits until they reach the security gate, swiping his keycard across the lock and pushing Bucky through the door.  
“It means.” He shuts the door behind them. “That the Strike Team are buying weapons with their own funds and openly carrying them around on site.”  
“What the fuck?” Bucky snaps. “And Coulson is okay with it?”  
“I don’t know,” Steve sighs, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “I was having it out with him when Luis started bellowing in my head about you getting into trouble.” He grimaces. “I feel like I got stabbed in the brain with an ice pick.”  
“Churros,” Bucky hums. “Like… it’s sweet and well-intentioned, but it’s still a chunk of fried pastry forced through your skull.”  
Steve snorts, taking a look around the room. The clean-up crew have managed to get the blood off the floor and Erskine’s chair, and mopped up the tank water, but…  
But the room looks so empty without him.

“Shit,” Steve whispers, and walks over to the empty chair. There’s a book lying on the cushion, even the leather binding has been cleaned of all traces of father’s blood. “What’s going to happen to all this?”  
Bucky has no idea how to answer. He doesn’t know. There are gaps on the shelves where books have been passed on, as per the instructions in his father’s will. His room is untouched, a closet filled with his clothes, a dresser neatly arranged with framed photographs and the clumsy talismans Bucky made in his youth. In the bathroom his razor sits on the edge of the sink, waiting to be used.  
“Bucky,” Steve says softly, but Bucky ignores it, pushes it all to one side. He can’t think about it, not yet, not when there’s a score to be settled.  
“Bucky?” Steve murmurs again, concerned.   
Bucky walks over to the armchair, hesitating. He can’t help but search for a trace of blood, something hidden in the seams, a few droplets hidden in the busy pattern of the fabric. Some proof that he existed. There is nothing. He reaches down, taking the book from the chair.  
The Poetic Edda, Bucky must have read it a thousand times. He cracks it open, leafing through the pages as Steve comes over to join him.  
“Luis showed me what happened.” Steve flinches. “He left something.”  
“What?” Steve grabs the corner of the book. “Bucky, wait a minute.”  
Bucky snarls. “Don’t you fucking start!”  
Steve doesn’t let go. “I know you’re angry, Christ I’m angry too. But what are you expecting to find in there?”  
“I don’t fucking _know_.” And ain’t that the worst part?

Bucky yanks the book out of Steve’s grip and carries it over to the tank, and wishes that Luis were here.   
“It’s a trap,” Steve says quietly, warily. “Whatever it is, it’s a trap.”  
“You think I don’t know that?”  
“Yes!” Steve looks exasperated. “You honestly think that whoever came here, hurt our friend and killed your father would leave you anything worthwhile? It may as well be a trail of breadcrumbs leading out the door.”  
Something itches at the back of Bucky’s mind. Steve was there when father died, listened to his last words when Bucky had been too late to.  
When asked, he’d just shaken his head, muttered something about the old man being delirious. _His last thoughts were of you_. What else had he said? What exactly were his thoughts about his absent son? Keep him safe? Or stop him?  
Bucky tries to turn a page, but it’s stuck, gummed together with something that smells faintly of salt and copper pennies.   
Blood. Faded to brown as it dried and seeped through the pages.   
He carefully peels the pages apart, something daubed over the Völuspá. A symbol, strange to even Bucky’s eyes. He holds the page up to the light; a circle, within it a crescent within a crescent, bound together by some kind of stylised hammer.   
“What is it?” Steve asks warily.  
Bucky shakes his head, closing the damned book. “I don’t know.” 

***

While the emergency light in Bucky’s room is bright and obnoxious enough to rouse him from the deepest sleep, the one in the library is positively sedate. It’s barely noticeable, a flicker of light over the doorway that reflects on the glass of the empty tank, and easily ignored.  
Bucky pulls another book off the shelf. He’ll search the whole damn library if he has to.  
“Bucky?”  
Steve is much harder to ignore, and Bucky marks his page with a scrap of paper before throwing the book on the pile. At least it’s a neat pile, stacked on the coffee table. Dad would spin in his grave if Bucky started manhandling his books. Well, technically they’re Bucky’s books now, he could do what he wanted with them.  
“What’s the assignment?” he asks, taking a minute to stretch the kinks out of his spine, his tail curling at the tip.  
“Washington. Something in a bank vault.” Steve picks up one of the books. “Still no luck?”  
“It ain’t Egyptian or Norse.” Bucky rubs his aching eyes. Days of searching and he’s got nothing. “Not Abrahamic neither. Still gotta check a few grimoires, an’ my knowledge of Tibetan Buddhism is shit, not to mention-”  
Steve wraps his hand around Bucky’s wrist, his fingers pale and warm against Bucky’s rusty skin. “We’ll figure it out.”  
Bucky doesn’t pull away, he’ll take all the comfort he can get. “Thought you didn’t want me following a breadcrumb trail?”  
“I don’t.” Steve gives him a tired smile. “Doesn’t mean I won’t follow it with you.”  
Bucky gives him a tight little smile in return. “Bank vault, huh? Well, let’s hope it ain’t Mammon.”  
Steve pales. “What?”

With Luis out of action Bucky sends Steve to fetch the twins, heading back to his room to grab the Samaritan and a few other things. They meet back in the library, the twins restless and looking for a distraction.  
Steve leads them through the security checkpoints, keeping everyone close. Barton gives them a nod as they pass through to the garage, tapping under one eye and pointing a finger at Pietro, who laughs it off.  
Nat is waiting for them by the Quinjet, and Pietro scrambles to get to the co-pilot seat first. Nat and Wanda share a look before following.  
Steve is last to buckle himself in, still looks a little twitchy over the idea of someone from the New Testament wandering around. Fairies and Demons he doesn’t blink at, but Bucky can practically see the thoughts running around his head, chasing their own tails.   
Bucky gives him a light tap on the knee as the engine starts. “Relax, I wasn’t being serious.” His mouth crooks up. “An’ if Mammon did start walking the earth, where else but in D.C.?”  
Steve snorts, the tension in his shoulders loosening. “So what are you thinking?”  
“Could be a Gnome?” Bucky props his feet up on the back of Nat’s chair, letting out a yelp when she shakes him off. Steve chuckles, turning his seat towards Bucky. He shifts to one side, leaving just enough space for Bucky to put his feet.  
Steve makes no fuss about it, doesn’t pat the seat or say anything, just adjusts his existence a little to make room for him.  
Bucky hesitates before finally putting his feet up, and Steve curls a hand around his ankle, the weight settling some fluttering disquiet in his gut.  
“You think we’d get called out for Gnome?” Nat snorts as the Quinjet veers south.  
Bucky glances up. He hadn’t even noticed they’d taken off. Usually by now he’d be staring out the window at the city lights below, but now he can hardly raise an interest.  
 _Huh_.  
Bucky smirks to himself. “It could be a dragon.”

While Bucky is happy to let chaos reign for a while, Nat has less patience for Pietro’s shrieking on her flight deck.  
“Enough,” she locks down co-pilot controls, and Pietro quickly switches from excitement about meeting a dragon to distress. “Settle down kid, you want to crash into sea?”  
“ _The_ sea,” Pietro sniffs. “You know you sound more Russian when you’re twitchy, right?”  
“Are there any other seas around here?” She gestures to the viewscreen. “You need me to tell you which one I mean?”  
Pietro slumps in his seat, kicking the base of the control panel.   
Steve sits forward a little, his grip on Bucky’s ankle still firm and increasingly familiar. “You okay, Nat?”  
She glances over her shoulder at them both, and Bucky can practically see her debating keeping her mouth shut.  
“I’m a little on edge myself,” Steve says quietly. “I know we’ve been getting security updates since I started. And I know a lot of them were overturned by Erskine, but now he’s gone…”  
“There’s something new every day,” Nat finishes. “You know it’s the Strike team waiting for us in D.C. No other agents. I’m not even supposed to leave the Quinjet.”  
“What?” Steve utters softly, visibly thrown by the news. “Why?”  
She jerks her head in Bucky’s direction. “Him.”  
“Fuck off,” Bucky growls, and Steve shushes him.  
“What are they thinking? That Bucky is gonna run over to the White House and terrorize the President?” Steve doesn’t even look in his direction but Bucky knows when he’s being addressed. “No. Don’t even try to ask, the answer’s still no.”  
There’s a chorus of complaints from the twins, Wanda citing immigration policy and Pietro making suggestions about what Bucky could do once he was in there. Nat cracks a smile at some of them. She unlocks Pietro’s controls, stretching to look at them over her shoulder and making no mention of Bucky’s feet getting all cosy in Steve’s chair. “Just… watch your backs, alright?”   
Steve murmurs a promise for both of them, his grip on Bucky almost painfully tight.

The Ideal Federal Savings Bank is an imposing old building, all white stone walls and Corinthian columns topped with a domed roof. The roads around it have been blocked off by the Strike team, but Nat still keeps the Quinjet cloaked when she lands a short distance away.  
She doesn’t shut down the engines, spinning round in her seat to face them. “Go low. Try not to get seen until you’re at the doors.”  
“You’re not a spy anymore, Nat.” Bucky clenches his jaw. Something’s not right, but he can’t put his finger on what exactly. “But you’ve covered my ass more’n once. We won’t give your location away.” He turns to Pietro. “Grab your sister and zip over to the far side. We’ll come in from both directions, keep them guessing.”  
Nat gives him a grateful look as Wanda hits the door controls, a moment later disappearing in a grey-haired blur. Bucky glances over at Steve, and it’s not that he doubts he’ll be close to hand, it’s just a comfort to know that he is. Steve gives him the slightest nod in return, checking that his walkie talkie is clipped to his belt and his sidearm safely holstered.   
“Alright,” Bucky gets to his feet. “Let’s see what all this is about.”

There’s no cover once they’re out of the Quinjet, just an empty street between them and the high arched doorways that lead into the bank. Bucky reaches into a pouch on his belt searching with careful fingers. There’s a gold disc threaded on a length of fine chain that he pauses over. A gift still ungiven, waiting for the right moment to slip into Steve’s hand. It’s not the right moment yet, so he moves on, grasping a vial and lifting it out. There’s no spell for invisibility, not really, but there are many for misdirection. He twitches his head to the open doorway, and Steve quietly follows.  
It must have stopped raining recently, the road is still wet, the lights from the bank reflecting off the surface. Good, it’ll help obscure their movements. Bucky silently motions for Steve to keep close, and walks across the street, head down and hands in his pockets. Steve does the same, trying to minimise the spread of his broad shoulders, look a little less imposing.  
By luck or design they reach the door, just as Pietro and Wanda are coming from across the other end of the street. The Strike team asshole at the door, someone Bucky doesn’t recognise, gives a confused grunt, but Steve greets him politely, and he steps aside, letting them into the building.  
Inside, Rumlow is sitting on the edge of a cashier’s desk, looking disinterested while another agent mutters urgently in his ear. He looks up at them, and with a flick of his hand dismisses the agent, who retreats quickly.  
“What took you so long, ladies?” He grins, wide and feral.  
“Washing my hair,” Bucky answers, and Rumlow ignores him, turning to Steve instead.  
“I hear congratulations are in order,” he says. “You ever think about joining Strike, you let me know.”  
Steve keeps his expression neutral. “I’ll bear that in mind.”  
Rumlow sees it for the rebuttal it is and sneers. “Don’t do me no favours. C’mon, time’s wasting.”  
“What are we looking at?” Steve asks as Rumlow starts walking.  
“You’ll see,” Rumlow smirks, snapping his fingers at the Strike team goons positioned around the room, who quickly fall in around them.  
Steve looks to Bucky for suggestions. With none to hand he shrugs. “Let’s check it out.”

Nat’s paranoia must be rubbing off on him, because Bucky takes the lead, hard on Rumlow's heels. Whatever’s in there can’t be that bad from the swagger in his step. The other guys, however, are sweating profusely, giving each other shifty little looks, so maybe not.   
Nat must have had an effect on Steve too, as he takes up the rear, keeping the twins safely between them as Rumlow leads them through a doorway and into a back room. There is a metal gate, the bats stretching from ceiling to floor, guarded by yet another Strike Team member. Rumlow gives him the nod and he quickly unlocks it and lets them through. Bucky hears the sound of the gate sliding shut behind them, a key turning in a lock, and Rumlow keeps on walking.   
While the bank floor is laid with plush carpet, the back rooms are far less lavish, all thin grey office carpeting and filing cabinets stacked up along the white-painted walls. They barely have time to look around, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the others how they are being herded along. Bucky hears Steve asking one of the goons a question, only to get ignored.  
A second gate, manned by another Strike Team member Bucky doesn’t recognise, and from the looks of it neither does Steve, and they finally reach the bank vault.  
There is one more stranger in a familiar uniform, and the final door opens, revealing a brightly lit room.  
The floor is grey tile, and the walls are lined haphazardly with safety deposit boxes of every size, from clusters of ones no bigger than a paperback novel to airport lockers.  
In the center of the room stands a man, his back to them.

Rumlow clears his throat. “Mr Pierce? Sir.”  
“What the hell?” Pietro murmurs as the man turns around.  
He is dressed in a tailored suit the grey of wood ash and cooling embers. His features are craggy and careworn, his hair the same shade as Steve’s but a little longer. He could be Steve’s father, grandfather, it’s hard to say which, as there is something ageless about him. The resemblance more than anything is what makes Bucky hesitate.  
“You took long enough,” Pierce tells Rumlow, who ducks his head apologetically. He is dismissed immediately, stepping back and taking position behind Steve, and the man turns his attention to Bucky.  
“I’m disappointed in you.” There is no malice, the statement is perfunctory, like a passing comment on the weather. “You got my message, and still you didn’t come to me.” He holds his hand up, gesturing to the room at large. “I had to orchestrate all this to get your attention.”  
“Yeah, well.” Bucky shrugs. “I’ve been busy.”  
Pierce smiles, all teeth, and turns away, walking over to examine a few of the safety deposit boxes, touching a fingertip to a keyhole.  
Something prickles under Bucky’s skin, something familiar and strange. Like visiting a place he hasn’t been to since childhood, recognition only coming in the most unexpected moments; the sloping cobbles of an old road, the smell of pitch and pine wood.   
A flaming branch held to the night sky, an army marching forth.  
Bucky takes a quick look around the room while the man’s back is turned. The gate is closed, two of the Strike team guarding it, leaving Rumlow and Rollins in the room with them and the stranger.  
Steve catches his eye, the same look on his face that must be on Bucky’s.   
A trap. A trap and they walked right into it.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Steve asks, moving to the side with studied indifference. Flanking. Rumlow moves with him, keeping on his outside, Rollins taking up the gap that forms between them and Bucky. The twins catch on, Pietro taking the far side, keeping Wanda within reach. They are silent, wary, their senses more attuned to danger than is fair.  
Pierce turns back to them, taking in the change in the room, and shakes his head  
“You showed such promise,” he sighs, sliding a hand into his pocket and shifting his weight to one foot. There is something deliberate in the motion, an elegant charade. “But, I only have myself to blame. This is what happens when you leave things to the humans.” He circles the room, taking the measure of each of the occupants. “Schmidt was a mistake. Useful for his part, an unfortunate necessity, but he failed. I will do better.”  
“Yeah, well get used to disappointment,” Bucky says lightly, hiding the way his shoulders tense, ready for a fight.  
Pierce’s expression turns ugly. “There it is. Your failing.” He comes closer, leaning in to speak in Bucky’s ear. “Love. You love them. You _want_ to be one of them.” He taps the fractured edge of Bucky’s horn. “You corrupt your perfect visage to appease them.”  
It’s barely a touch, but it makes Bucky’s mind flare out, makes his teeth ache and his heart jump, like biting down on tinfoil. Bucky flinches, his mouth filling with the taste of dry dust and cordite.  
He remembers. Remembers being dragged forth from the void, railing into existence, a spark against tinder that roared into an inferno. A limb torn from a pine tree, its branches coated in beads of amber resin, the dead needles curling and crumbling as he burned. The sky above was lost to plumes of smoke, below the ground shook with the stamp of feet and the pounding of marching drums.  
 _I know you_. Bucky’s heart kicks and screams. _I know your name_.

“I said.” Steve takes a lurching step towards the man, as if pushing against an invisible barrier. “What do you want?”  
“Ragnarok,” Bucky answers for him. “You’re working for Surtr. He’s the one behind all this. The thefts, the trolls, you want to end the world.”  
“Yes, of course I do,” the man says impatiently.   
Bucky’s expression clouds over. “You killed my father.”  
Pierce looks pained, leaning away as if repulsed by the very words. “He was weak, a pitiful mortal, filling your head with nonsense like love,” he spits. “He deserved to die.”  
Bucky snarls, lunging forward, and Pierce flicks out his hand, sending out a pulse of heat that knocks Bucky back on his heels and blisters the paint on the lockers stacked up behind him.  
Steve reaches out to help him, but Rollins blocks him, mumbling something about the heat. The twins start towards him and hesitate too, and Bucky looks down to see his skin glowing, a dull, flickering light like embers in a grate. He clenches his fists, willing the burn away, and Pierce looks on in disgust his skin returns to its dull hue.  
“I know what you got planned for me,” Bucky hisses. “It ain’t gonna happen.”  
“Yeah, I get that,” Pierce sighs. “If you will not come willingly, then we’ll have to use force.”  
“Fuck you!”   
Pierce cocks his head to one side. “If you will not do this for me, then maybe you will to save the one you love.”

Pietro is fast, but this time Bucky is faster, putting himself between Pierce and Wanda, his arm thrown out to shield Pietro too.   
“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is hushed, and there is an edge to it, a slicing blade that flays open Bucky’s heart when he turns to him.  
Steve’s hands are half-raised, his gun out of his holster and in Rumlow’s hand.   
Rumlow is grinning, wide and fierce, the barrel of the stolen gun pressed to Steve’s temple. In his other hand a stun baton digging into the base of Steve’s spine. On his other side, Rollins has his own baton pressed to Steve’s chest, right over his heart.  
Behind him, Bucky hears a sharp, bitten off sound from Wanda, the clack of her rings as she covers her mouth with her hands.  
“Good guess,” Pierce admits. “She would have been my choice. But this one…” He walks over to Steve, staring him in the eye, and Steve sets his jaw, meeting his stare. “This one _loves_ you.”  
Steve doesn’t flinch at the word, raising his chin as if it was something to be proud of.  
“Let him go,” Bucky rasps. There is a dull pounding in his ears, like a thousand marching drums. “Let him go before I fucking end you.”  
Pierce cocks his head to one side, studying Steve’s features. There is no mirth in his expression, but a mix of avarice and disgust as he touches a thumb to Steve’s cheek. Steve doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away as Pierce draws a line of fire along his jaw, and Bucky roars a wordless curse. It shakes the building to its foundations, rattling the metal gates and security lockers as shadows rise up around them, flickering and formless like the darkness that surrounds a flame.   
When the last echo of his voice fades and the darkness recedes, only the twins remain beside him. Pierce and the Strike team are gone.  
Steve is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar dheas Dé go raibh a anam - May his/her soul be on God's right hand 
> 
> sviga lævi - The scathe of branches, Surtr’s flame


	8. The Left Hand of Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Me,” Bucky whispers, raising his silver hand. “I can open the bridge. I’m _Sviga Lævi_ , Surtr’s flame, and I will bring forth Ragnarok.”  
> “Fuck that!” Luis yells. “You ain’t any of those things, you’re Bucky. You come in here telling me that just because some singed bastard is calling you this an’ that you’re just gonna go along with it?”  
> “Didn’t you hear me?” Bucky roars. “I’m the left hand of doom, the fall of-”  
> “Say’s who?” Luis snaps. “You say this is your fate? Fuck fate! I was supposed to burn for a thousand years in the heart of a star, you see my flaming ass spinning through the cosmos? No!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thank yous to all the people who have left comments and kudos, I love you all (especially Zee)  
> Special thanks to Karadin for producing the most beautiful art! You can find more of their work on Ao3 and [Tumblr](http://karadin.tumblr.com)  
> Ten thousand thank yous to the bestest beta [Eidheann](http://eidheann.tumblr.com/) who yells at me when I do terrible things (seriously, my google docs is full of ARGH STEVE), and to Krycek-asks for alpha reading and rampant enabling. Special thanks to Layers and Vex for talking me into the title. Arr, me hearties.  
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com) where I repost the same 6 pictures of Bucky with the good hair.

There are things Bucky doesn’t remember. He doesn’t recall walking into the meeting, though he is there for the debriefings, sitting in numbed, stricken silence while the twins speak. Wanda’s hands still shaking as she pulls her blanket around her shoulders, flecks of iron under her nails; Pietro too restless, too panicked to sit still for long, a quicksilver shadow flickering back and forth, only pausing to confirm his sister's statements.  
Bucky gives no input. He answers no questions. He doesn’t remember the creeping return of the light revealing a deserted bank, or Wanda burning through the solid iron gates to free them from the vault.  
He doesn’t remember being led out onto the street, or seeing the unmanned roadblocks as they hurried back to the Quinjet where Nat was waiting.  
The Strike Team, the defence and security arm of the SSR, are gone. No warnings, no messages, every last damn one of them vanished in an instant.  
Nat hadn’t said a thing, just took one look at Bucky and the space beside him where Steve should have been, and got them in the air.  
He remembers flames. The cast of shadows on the vault walls. He remembers the rising darkness, and the moment Steve turned to him, fearless even then.  
_Find me_.  
His lips had barely moved as the shadows wrapped around him, and before Bucky had a chance to answer, could swear to it that he would, Steve was gone.  
He remembers flames, and Steve, and little else.  
Eventually they stop asking.  
The SSR has survived seventy years and a world war, and does not fall easily to chaos. Even with the defection of the entire Strike Team to an unknown organisation and innumerable security breaches, it does not fall.  
Bucky watches it all in a haze, as if in some half-formed dream, as crisis meetings are called and agents pulled in from other assignments. Debates rage back and forth over moving locations and redirecting energies, and no one seems to care all that much for one agent missing in the chaos.  
Not missing. Not defected. _Abducted_. Wanda swears to it, lashing out with words and red mist when anyone suggests otherwise.  
Bucky takes the vial from a pouch on his belt. There is an amulet still sitting in the pouch with it, a gold disc inscribed with a star. He tucks it safely away, closing his grip on the vial. A little misdirection, and he slips out of the room when no one is watching.

***

“Hey, Sea Bass. Wake up.”  
Bucky reaches into the shallow tank, flicking his silver fingers across the surface. He’s too full of wrath and raw edges to touch Luis, to put that horror on him, so he stirs up the water, and hopes it will be enough to wake him.  
Luis stirs, his branchial fins fanning out as he opens his eyes. “You already called me that-” He takes one look at Bucky and sits bolt upright, displacing water in a foaming wave over the side of the tank, splashing down onto the Infirmary floor. “What happened?”  
“Steve.” Bucky retreats before Luis can reach out to him. “He took Steve.”  
“Who…” Luis twists around in his tank, tail striking the glass as he stretches out his hand. “Get over here man! Show me what’s going on.”  
Bucky shakes his head, taking another step back. “Surtr. He’s behind everything. All the shit that’s been stolen, all the assignments we’ve been running our asses off with. _Dad_. It’s Surtr, he’s trying to open the Bifrost.” It all comes pouring out, all the things he couldn’t say to Maria and the rest of the SSR. “He found a way over, just a little bit of him, crawling around in some fucker named Pierce. But he wants to open a portal to Muspell, bring about Ragnarok, burn all creation down to nothing!”  
“Mother _fucker_ ,” Luis hisses. “But he can’t, right? Like, the rune stones and the axe were destroyed. There’s no other way he can open the bridge. Can he?”  
Bucky bows his head. “There’s one.”  
“Sonofa-” Luis smacks his hands against the glass. “So we destroy it! Whatever it is, we break it apart, we make sure whoever this guy is he can’t-”  
“It’s me,” Bucky whispers, raising his silver hand. “I can open the bridge. I’m _Sviga Lævi_ , Surtr’s flame, and I will bring forth Ragnarok.”  
“Fuck that!” Luis yells. “You ain’t any of those things, you’re Bucky. You come in here telling me that just because some singed bastard is calling you this an’ that you’re just gonna go along with it?”  
“Didn’t you hear me?” Bucky roars. “I’m the left hand of doom, the fall of-”  
“Say’s who?” Luis snaps. “You say this is your fate? Fuck fate! I was supposed to burn for a thousand years in the heart of a star, you see my flaming ass spinning through the cosmos? No!”

Bucky clenches his hands into fists, one red and shimmering with heat, the other bright silver. To think he always thought it would be the silver hand that would be his ruin. His clothes are soaking, but faint tendrils of steam are slowing rising up from his body heat.  
He gets it now, what Father had tried to tell him. And he can’t change what he is, but Luis is right, he never once in his life did what he was told, and he sure as hell ain’t gonna start now.  
Luis leans against the tank, his gills twitching against his scalp as he struggles for breath. Bucky fetches his cap from the shelf beside him, and with careful fingers fits it over his head.  
“Settle down, Xolotl,” he says quietly. “You’ll do yourself a mischief.”  
“You wanna burn the world?” Luis asks, meeting Bucky’s eyes without fear.  
“No.”  
“Good. So what you gonna do now?”  
_Find me_.  
“Steve.” Bucky closes his eyes. “I’m gonna find Steve.” He opens his eyes again. He sees himself reflected in the water, his once-blue irises edged with fire. “And kill that bastard for laying a hand on him.”  
Luis snaps the edge of his cap into place. “Cool beans. Let’s go.”  
“What?” The heat under Bucky’s skin quenches instantly. “No. No way. You are not coming.”  
“Steve’s my buddy too, Buck.” Luis starts clambering out of the tank, too fast and slippery for Bucky to grab.  
“Damnit, no!” Bucky lunges for him. “You remember what happened last time you went up against him? He nearly killed you.”  
“Yeah, well he caught me off guard,” Luis argues, skittering over to the door and right into Wanda. “Oh hey, Little Red.”

Bucky shifts awkwardly at the sight of the twins in the doorway, tucking his thumbs into his back pockets. “Okay,” he asks the floor. “How much of that did you hear?”  
“You’re the Beast of the Apocalypse,” Pietro says with far too much cheer.  
“Fuck,” Bucky sighs.  
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Wanda asks. She sounds hurt, and Bucky hates himself a little for that.  
He scrubs his hand down his face, and risks looking up at them. “You mad?”  
“We’re coming with you,” Wanda ignores the question. “This is not up for discussion.”  
Bucky opens his mouth to argue, then snaps it closed, snorting out a frustrated breath as he does so. He circles around the Infirmary, boots splashing in the inch deep water. “I don’t know where he is.”  
“What?” Pietro splutters.  
“Pierce left me a symbol, but I can’t find any reference to it in the library.” He turns to Luis. “Can you get a signal on him, some idea where they’ve taken him?”  
“He ain’t a radio, Buck,” Luis says regretfully. “You know it don’t work like that.”  
Bucky curses under his breath, kicking up a spray of water.  
“How long do we have?” Wanda asks. “How long will they keep him?”  
Bucky is about to shake his head when he sees Luis pale, the scales around his mouth fading to cream. “What?”  
“I don’t…” Luis licks his lips. “I’m getting a black cat, friday the thirteenth creepy-ass vibe here.”  
“Get to the point,” Bucky hisses.  
“The Blood Moon,” Luis says quickly. “You’re talking about the apocalypse, right? So it’s gotta be on the Blood Moon, am I right?”  
“Fuck,” Bucky utters vehemently.  
“When is the full moon?” Wanda is the first to ask. Damn it all.  
“Tonight,” Bucky sighs.  
“Oh shit,” Pietro mutters. Wanda doesn’t tell him to watch his language.  
“Okay.” Bucky shakes himself off. There’s no time left. No time to waste on worry. “We need a plan.”

Silence fills the room for a long minute as Bucky folds his arms, pacing back and forth.  
“Hey,” Luis says cautiously. “How about we take this to Hill? I mean, I know there’s no love lost between you an’ Coulson, but Maria’s a stand up lady.”  
“They know Steve’s gone.” Wanda draws a finger along her eyebrow, doing her best to stay calm.  
“They don’t care,” Pietro says flatly, his expression grim. “We told them and they didn’t care.”  
“What’s one more agent when they entire Strike Team’s missing?” Wanda finishes.  
Luis look over to Bucky, who nods in confirmation. “Damn.”  
“Alright.” Bucky drags his teeth over his lower lip. _Think, damnit_. “Alright, so figuring out the symbol is a dead end, I’ve searched everywhere. So we track down Steve. There’s a location spell in one of Dad’s old books, I remember seeing it.” He looks at the twins, a plan quickly forming. “We can clear the floor in the library, mark out the spell in chalk. But we’ll need something of Steve’s, something personal. And a map.”  
“A picture of his mother,” Wanda says suddenly. “It’s in his room.”  
There’s an odd little tick in Bucky’s throat, a little twist of muscle that could unfurl and choke him. He swallows it down. “Good. That’s good.”  
“Google!” Pietro digs in his pocket and pulls out his phone. “It’s got a map.”  
“Near enough,” Bucky points to the door. “C’mon, we gotta move.”

They file out of the door, sloshing water into the tunnel, and run into Coulson coming their way.  
He looks like he’s trying to stomp, or at least be imposing as he glares up at Bucky “You!”  
Bucky rocks back on his heels as Coulson walks up to him, finger jabbing the air under his nose.  
“Yeah, me,” he mutters.  
“You… you cost me everything!” Coulson yells. “I’m being reassigned. Due to my failure to-” He holds his fingers up, making rabbit ears. “Prevent the infiltration of hostile forces into the organisation.”  
“Well to be fair to the review panel,” Luis’ mouth twists up. “You kind of did.”  
“Not helping, Vaquita,” Bucky mutters.  
Luis beams. “Oooh, that’s a good one, I’m keeping it.”  
Coulson looks about ready to start screaming, and jabs Bucky in the middle of his chest. Bucky would knock it away if it weren’t for the sight of Hill coming up the tunnel after him.  
Or maybe not. It’s a close run thing.  
“Phillip, wheels up in ten, come on,” she says firmly, but Coulson isn’t done.  
“It doesn’t matter how many freaks you take down,” he sneers. “How many monsters. There’s always gonna be one left.” He gives Bucky’s chest a final jab.  
“ _Agent Coulson_ ,” Hill calls sharply, and he finally retreats. She pats him on the arm and sends him down the tunnel before turning back to them. “The site’s going into emergency lockdown while we evaluate the situation.” She looks to each of them in turn. “I need you to go down to the Zoo and await further instructions, understand?”  
They mumble in agreement, and she gives them a last, dubious look. “Well, go on.”  
Wanda moves first, grabbing her brother by the elbow and walking down to the junction. Bucky and Luis walk with her, keeping their heads down as a handful of agents hurry past.  
“Well, scratch that plan,” Bucky huffs.  
Wanda hesitates at the tunnel mouth. Right will take them down to the Zoo, or they could…  
“We’re running, right?” Luis asks.  
“Yeah.” Bucky points to one of the tunnels across the way. “We’re running.”

Bucky curses under his breath, why can’t things go their way just once? He waits until the coast is clear before leading them quickly across the junction to the narrow, white tiled tunnel ahead. He’s got nothing but the clothes on his back and a couple of charms in his pockets. No spellbooks, no amulets, no Samaritan.  
He glances at Wanda, dressed in one of those flimsy little black dresses she likes so much. Fine for the Zoo but she’ll freeze out in the open. And Luis, Luis shouldn’t even be here, he should be resting in the Infirmary.  
He’s so lost in the tangle of his thoughts he doesn’t notice everyone stopping at a dead end.  
“Did we come the wrong way?” Wanda asks.  
Bucky shakes his head, going over to a cleared area where a shaft in the tunnel roof stretches up into darkness.  
“Oh, shit. We gotta climb?” Luis looks down at the suckers on his hands, poking them experimentally.  
Bucky raps on the wall with his metal fist, an echoing clang reverberating up the shaft.  
“Yeah, yeah,” a voice wavers down, old and cranky and Brooklyn to its core. “Keep ya shirt on.”  
There’s a whine of rotors and gears, and a platform comes clanking down the shaft. It thumps against the flat concrete floor, and Bucky gestures for the twins to get on.  
“First lot coming up!” Bucky shouts up the shaft. “Elbows in, kids,” he adds before stepping back.  
“How many of yous is there?” comes the reply, before the platform starts lifting up with a whine.  
Luis peers up as the platform shakes its way out of sight, and gives Bucky a fond look. “Always wondered how you got in and out.”  
“You think there’s only one?” Bucky snorts, pulling him out of the way when the platform starts coming back down. “C’mon.”  
They climb on, and with a shout from Bucky start rising up again, gears straining with the weight.  
“That’s all you, y’know,” Luis says primly, and Bucky pats him on the shoulder.

The platform spits them out into a little concrete hut, empty but for the old guy sat at a desk reading a newspaper, a portable heater at his feet. Wanda and Pietro are over to one side, looking around warily.  
He raises his thermos cup of coffee. “How ya doin’, Red?”  
“Seen better days, sir,” Bucky answers honestly. “This here is Luis, and you’ve met the twins, Wanda and Pietro.”  
The old man pulls his glasses down from the top of his head and peers at Luis through them. “So you’re the Fishbro, huh?”  
“That’s me,” Luis says proudly.  
He looks unimpressed, pushing his glasses back up again. “You’d better skedaddle.”  
“I owe you,” Bucky says, walking over to the door and cracking it open. The old guy makes a pssht noise and goes back to his sudoku.

Outside it is quiet, all the activity still below their feet. But it won’t be for long, and Bucky hustles his disparate group down the driveway to the main gate.  
Even surrounded by trees, their leaves red and gold scattered on the grass, there’s little cover, and Bucky doesn’t let anyone idle to admire the scenery.  
“Where are we going?” Wanda is the first to break the silence.  
“Don’t know.” Bucky thumbs the intercom on the gate, and it swings open obligingly.  
Bucky would bet money of Pietro being able to hotwire a car, and would need little encouragement. Finding a car is a whole other problem. And figuring out where to go once they had one.  
He pats at his pockets, as they walk onto the road, the gate clanking shut behind them. There must be something of Steve’s on him, something he can use.  
“Yo, someone’s coming.” Luis cuts through his thoughts, and Bucky curses under his breath.  
Further up the road there is the sound of an engine, the thrum of wheels on road.  
“Aw, crap,” Bucky hisses, pulling everyone off the road and shoving them behind the trees.  
Pietro, quick as lightning, grabs his sister by the waist and hauls her up into the high branches, her feet kicking irritably. Luis flattens himself against the trunk of a tall pine, his skin blending in with the bark. That leaves Bucky, a big red idiot surrounded by green and brown. He swears to himself, it’s not like he can sit on a branch and pretend he’s a cherry. He hunkers down at the base of a tree, pulling his coat around himself as an SSR van pulls to a stop outside the gate.  
They don’t climb out, or reach over to use the intercom. After a minute the driver winds down his window and leans out.  
“You can come out now!” he yells, and Bucky lets out a soft breath.  
_Barton_.

Bucky stands up, warily at first, and Barton guns the engine impatiently. “C’mon, time’s wasting.”  
That gets Pietro moving, squirreling down the tree with Wanda clinging to his back. So Bucky goes over to the van and opens the side door, waving each of them in as Barton watches.  
“You’re a lifesaver, man,” Bucky tells him.  
“Yeah, well.” Barton fidgets with the steering wheel. “Heard Steve got snatched up by… whoever we’re dealing with, and the SSR weren’t too worried about getting him back.” He gives Bucky a meaningful look. “Figured that wouldn’t sit so well with you.”  
“You’re damn right,” Bucky grits his teeth. “Where we going?”  
“Someplace safe,” Barton twitches his head to where the others are waiting. “Get in.”  
Bucky need no further instruction, climbing in and slamming the door shut. He slaps on the ceiling, hearing the wheels spin as Barton turns the van around in a wide arc, riding up on the leaf-littered verges as he does so.  
“We didn’t get our stuff,” Wanda says, wrapping her arms around herself. It’s not as cold as Bucky thought it’d be outside the facility, but it’s cold enough for her to shiver.  
“Come here.” Bucky gestures for her to sit with him, wrapping his arms around her to keep her warm. “We got each other, right?”  
“Blbec,” she mutters, tucking her head under his chin.

The drive is thankfully short, though Bucky has no idea where they’re going. He steals a few glances at Pietro’s watch as the van takes them down back roads, tree branches brushing the sides and tapping the roof. There’s hours to go before sunset, not that it’s any comfort.  
The road becomes bumpier for maybe half a mile, and the van slows and eventually comes to a stop. A moment later Clint is pulling open the side door.  
“Everybody out,” he calls, and one by one they climb out of the van.  
They’re standing in the yard in front of a farm house. An old fashioned, painted wood farm house with a porch and screen door, like something out of an old movie where someone gets consumption.  
“Nice crib you got,” Luis whistles appreciatively, before giving Clint a doubtful look. “It _is_ your place, right?”  
Before Clint can answer the screen door flies open and a golden retriever comes flying down the steps. It comes bounding across the grass, tongue lolling, and Clint hunkers down to greet it, laughing while the dog bounces up and down, licking his face.  
Bucky, a cat person to the core, retreats from the slobbering fiend. Pietro, the traitor, crouches down to make friends with the dog, while Wanda sticks by Bucky’s side. The dog quickly abandons Clint in favour of Luis, giving him a hearty sniff to make sure he isn’t food before licking him everywhere it can reach.  
Clint straightens up, much damper than he was five minutes ago, and gestures for them to go into the house.  
“Hey, Luis? You want me to run you a bath?” Clint frowns at Luis rolling around in the dirt with his dog. “You can’t be out of water too long, right?”  
“He’ll take a bath,” Bucky answers before Luis can refuse. “Cold, but not icy. You got hard water?”  
Clint shrugs. “I got wet water?”  
“Fine.” Bucky ignores the way Luis is grinning at him. _Dumbass_.  
“I’ll make some coffee.” Clint whistles for his dog. “C’mon, trouble. Get in here before you scare the chickens off laying again.”  
“Chickens?” Luis sits bolt upright. “The pickled egg chickens?”  
Clint gestures around the back of the house, and Luis scrambles off to check them out, his tail dragging through the grass.  
“They don’t come out pickled,” Clint yells after him, but Luis is long gone. He turns back to the others. “Come in.”

Inside the house is cosy and well lived in, with a couple of old couches in front of a TV in the living room and a small, open plan kitchen where Clint gets to work on a fresh pot of coffee. Pietro races over to the couch to grab the best seat, and promptly lets out a shriek.  
“What?” Bucky stomps over to investigate, and finds the boy wide eyed in shock, staring at the couch.  
Nat is curled up against one arm, a cat in her lap.  
“What’s _she_ doing here?” Pietro demands. “What are you doing here?”  
Wanda snorts, pushing past him to give Nat a hug before joining her. “Hey, Nat.”  
“I live here,” Nat replies, and smirks at the look of surprise on both Pietro’s and Bucky’s face. “Steve didn’t tell you?”  
Bucky shakes his head. “I thought you were… y’know… coffee.”  
Nat blinks at him for a minute, before turning to Wanda. “You cold? I’ve got some stuff that will probably fit?”  
Wanda nods, appreciative, and Nat leads her to a set of stairs leading up to the bedrooms. Bucky doesn’t need to hear them to know he’s being laughed at.  
Pietro, who is apparently competing against Bucky in the dumbass of the year contest, looks back at Clint. “So you two are-”  
“Yes.” Clint fetches milk from the fridge.  
“Oh.” The penny drops. “Sorry for. Uh. Hitting on your girl.”  
“She ain’t mine.” Clint fetches mugs from an overhead cupboard. “That said, you try anything again I’ll shoot you.”  
Pietro tilts his head to one side, weighing up his options. “Fair enough.”  
“Coffee,” Clint announces, setting down mugs of strong, black coffee on the kitchen counter.

With a little persuasion, Luis leaves the chickens alone and comes back inside. He turns down the offer of coffee but accepts the bath with enthusiasm. Bucky leaves him soaking in the tepid water, his tail draped on the bathmat, an open jar of pickled eggs keeping him company.  
By the time Bucky returns to the living room, Wanda and Nat are back too. It’s kind of weird seeing Nat out of her work clothes, on duty she wears a tight black one piece and a half dozen weapons. Off duty she dresses like some kind of hipster, all skinny jeans and several layers of t-shirts and tank tops. Wanda at least looks a little warmer with a borrowed red leather coat and fingerless gloves.  
Bucky has enough self preservation to keep his mouth shut, and he snags a pen and notepad from the coffee table, sitting on the floor at Wanda’s feet. Nat’s cat lets out a curious little trill, and climbs down to join him, curling up in a tiny black bundle in his lap.  
“You got a plan, Red?” Nat asks.  
“Had one,” Bucky admits, a little grudging. “Now we’re winging it.”  
He starts sketching out a spell, partly from memory, but mostly by feel. A lot of magic is sympathetic, driven by need but artless, a blunt object. Between artless and nothing, Bucky is too desperate for high standards, and will gladly take the blunt object.

After a while, Clint announces that he’s hungry and gets a couple of frozen pizzas out. He shoves them in the oven before setting about making more coffee.  
The smell of toasting cheese and too much basil should set Bucky’s stomach rumbling, but he can’t stomach the thought of food, and turns down the offer of a slice when they come out the oven. Wanda kicks him, too lightly to cause damage, and Bucky relents. He puts down his notepad covered in scrawls, half-written incantations and unfinished sigils, and takes the plate being waved under his nose, the cat in his lap sitting up attentively.  
The pizza is actually pretty good, a sourdough crust with puddles of milky, tangy mozzarella. Bucky scrapes the sauce off a stringy piece of cheese and offers it to the cat, who licks it delicately from his silver fingers. He sits back with a sigh, gnawing on the overbaked, crunchy edge while Nat snags the notepad.  
“What’s this?” she asks, her pizza finished and not a spot of grease on her.  
“A summoning spell,” Bucky says, his mouth full. “Still not ironed out all the kinks. Need something of Steve’s though. Don’t suppose you got anything?”  
Nat shakes her head absently, holding the pad out to Barton to look at. “What’s this… squiggle?” She holds the pad out, pointing to a star within a set of concentric circles. The same design of the amulet hidden in Bucky’s belt.  
“That’s the universe.” Bucky sucks the grease from his fingers and points to a mess of curls and spirals. “That’s to reveal the truth.”  
“And the…” Nat turns the pad upside down. Among the scrawls and crossing outs Bucky had drawn the symbol Pierce had left for him to find; a T-shape within a circle, two broken concentric circles like a bullseye in the center. “What’s this?”  
Barton snags the last slice of pizza. “Huh. Grand Central,” he remarks, before cramming it in his mouth.

Bucky flips around fast enough to give himself whiplash. “What?”  
Barton chews for a minute, and Bucky tamps down on the urge to strangle the guy as he drops his half-eaten slice of pizza on his plate and wipes his mouth.  
“That.” The word comes out in a garbled spray of crumbs. “It’s the logo for Grand Central Station, they changed it last year.” He smears tomato sauce on the pad with his fingers. “There’s the G, the C and the T.”  
“T?”  
Barton shrugs, grabbing the rest of his pizza. “Terminal. Ain’t you ever been?”  
Bucky scowls at him. “No.”  
“You should check it out.” Barton glances at the twins, who are staring at him. “What? A guy can’t like a bit of Art Deco?”  
Wanda gets her phone out and starts searching. “The place is huge,” she says, holding a picture out for Bucky to see. An immense, grandiose building in Midtown, slap bang in the middle of tourist central. “How are we supposed to find him there?”  
He’s in New York. He’s not in Norway or Alaska or Mars, he’s close. Bucky hauls himself to his feet. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”  
Barton stares, gnawing on the last of the pizza as everyone scrambles, and grudgingly goes to the kitchen for his keys.  
“Stay here,” he tells the dog, who obliges by lying down for a nap on the couch. 

“Hold on,” Nat calls out. “What’s the plan here?”  
Bucky, on his way to the bathroom to get Luis, gives her an incredulous look. “Find Steve.”  
“That’s it?” She looks appalled. “That’s your plan?”  
“It’s succinct?” Pietro says hopefully.  
Nat ignores him, following Bucky to the bathroom. “I get why you’re doing this. Really, I get it.” She waits for Bucky to yell at Luis to get moving, and says nothing about the water all over her floor. “But a plucky attitude will only get you so far.”  
“Yeah, well everything’s locked down in the SSR,” Bucky grouses. It still stings how little Coulson cared, even if he did get fired. “We ain’t got nothing else.”  
“Well.” She smiles, wide and unnerving. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”  
She saunters off, and Bucky doesn’t have time to dwell on it, hustling Luis and the twins back out to the van. It’s a three hour drive, and time is slipping away from them.  
Barton climbs into the driver’s seat while they pile in the back, and a few minutes later Nat comes out to join them, a bundle thrown over one shoulder. She drops it on the floor of the van before pulling the door shut. A moment later Bucky hears the sound of the passenger door opening and closing, the slight shift in weight as Nat puts on her seatbelt, and they’re moving.

Pietro stares at the bundle like it might be full of snakes. Or gold.  
It’s long and bulky, wrapped tightly in canvas but untied, and every time the van goes over a bump it shifts and clanks.  
“Hey Luis,” he says after a while. “Any ideas?”  
“Nuh-uh,” Luis tugs at the edge of his cap nervously. “I can only read sentient things, an’ if there was anything sentient in that thing Luis here would be running for the hills, you know what I mean?”  
Bucky huffs, and bends down to unwrap the bundle. Inside there is a recurve bow and a quiver full of weird looking arrows. There’s also a couple of glocks and a box of grenades, and Bucky growls, low in his throat when Pietro reaches for one. “Not ‘till you’re 21 kid.”  
Pietro makes a token effort at grumbling, and sits on his hands. “She’d kill you for touching them anyway,” Wanda points out.  
“Damn straight,” Bucky huffs, and pulls back the last of the covers.  
Hidden under the final folds, along with its holster and a box of shells, is the Samaritan.  
Bucky snatches it up, damn near close to tears as he checks the cartridge and buckles the holster around his waist. He wraps the rest of the contents back up again and sits back in his seat.  
Maybe there’s a chance after all.

The van finally comes to a stop, and Bucky can hear the sound of traffic outside, as well as Barton arguing with a cab driver over where he’s parked.  
The side door opens, and Nat throws a blanket at Luis. “Cover up!”  
Luis doesn’t complain, scooping up the fine, grey cloth and wrapping it around himself. “Stylish.” He checks the long white ribbon sewn to the bottom edge. “Nat, you shop at IKEA? For reals?”  
She throws another blanket at Bucky, this one smaller and dark blue, and Bucky grudgingly wraps it around his head while Pietro laughs.  
“You look like a G-” Luis clears his throat loudly. “Washerwoman.” Pietro gives Luis an apologetic look. “Sorry. Habit.”  
“Then break it, brah.” Luis pulls his tail under the blanket, wrapping it around his waist. “Okay, am I good?”  
Wanda purses her lips. His pale gold legs and webbed feet are clearly visible, as are his hands clutching the folds of his blanket. “We’re in New York,” she says at last. “You’ll fit right in.”  
“Awesome.”  
They climb out one by one, and Bucky hands Nat the parcel, before giving her a brief, over-tight hug.  
“Thanks,” he whispers.  
She prods him in the hip. “When this is over I want a vacation. Two weeks. Bali. No expense spared.”  
He hugs a little harder. “No expense spared.”  
The light tap on his back is enough to make him let go, and they turn to the building. Barton is finally done fighting with the cab driver, and walks over to join them.  
“You been here before?” Bucky asks.  
“Yeah,” Barton turns to give his van a last look, parked in the middle of a taxi rank. “Got thrown out of the Shake Shack.”

They walk through the main entrance, keeping close together. Bucky keeps his head down, pulling his blanket a little more tightly over the stumps of his horns, while the twins openly stare at their surroundings.  
Luis tips back his head, his hood falling away as he gazes at the painted ceiling, and Nat quickly pulls it back up, giving him a gentle shove to keep him moving to the main concourse.  
There are people _everywhere_ , gathering around the ticket booths, rushing to and from the staircases at either end of the hall. Dozens more are looking into the store windows that line the room, or milling around in front of the departure boards, and he feels like he can barely breathe without someone clipping him on their way past, or plain walking into him if he’s going too slow.  
Someone knocks into Bucky’s left side, right into his silver arm. They let out a grunt of discomfort, breaking their stride and glaring back at him, and Bucky ducks his head, hoping they can’t see his face in the folds of blanket around him.  
“We can’t stay here,” he hisses, and leads them over to one of the staircases. There’s a little breathing room behind the steps leading up to a shopping area where he can stop and bring Steve’s amulet into the open. It’s not strictly something belonging to him, at least not yet, but Bucky will have to make do.  
“I can’t do a location spell, not with all this shit going on around us,” he explains. “But I can dowse.”  
Nat’s gaze shifts to Barton, and they move seamlessly out of the huddle, standing a short distance away, far enough to give Bucky a little privacy, not so far that someone will walk through them.

“Dowse?” Wanda watches with interest as Bucky wraps most of the chain around his fingers, leaving a few inches hanging free, the amulet dangling at the end.  
“Yup.” Bucky holds the amulet still. “It ain’t _refined_ , ain’t gonna give you anything more than yes or no.” He pauses. “Or nothing.” _Fuck, please don’t be nothing._  
“So it’s like an 8 Ball?” Pietro reaches out to poke the amulet.  
“Yeah, but it’s reliable,” Luis chips in.  
“Is Steve nearby?” Bucky asks the chain, and lets go of the amulet.  
For a moment it hangs still, then swings violently towards him and back again.  
Yes.  
“He’s here,” Bucky breathes.  
“Where?” Nat calls over her shoulder.  
“Yes or no,” Bucky hisses. “It’s not gonna give us directions.” He wipes his hand over his mouth, trying to think. “Is he in the building?”  
The amulet swings in a wide arc and Pietro, who was leaning in a little too close, gets smacked on the cheek.  
“He’s not in the building,” Bucky explains while Pietro rubs his jaw. “Shit.”  
“Is he on a train?” Nat asks.  
“If he’s on a train we’ve lost him already,” Barton mutters, keeping his voice low but Bucky still hears it.  
“Is he on a train?” Bucky asks. Better to know now, maybe they can find it in time.  
The pendulum swings in another wide arc, and Pietro dodges it this time.  
No. Bucky swears softly, more in relief than anything. But they can’t afford to hang around, or spend what little time they have left playing yes or no.  
“Okay, Luis,” he says quietly. “You’re up.”  
“I don’t know, man.” Luis looks doubtful. “Lot of souls out here. It’s like listening to thirty radio stations at once.”  
“Try,” Bucky hisses. Then softer, more desperate. “ _Please_.”

Luis looks hesitant, then carefully peels back the blankets covering his sleeves and presses his hands to the walls. He closes his eyes and frowns, his gold skin darkening to bronze as his eyes twitch back and forth under their lids. His mouth draws tight, then suddenly lets out a startled laugh.  
“What’s going on?” Bucky asks, panic and frustration knotting in his throat.  
“Oh man,” Luis laughs. “Oh man, you gotta see this.”  
Before Bucky can answer he reaches out, eyes still screwed shut, and slaps his open palm against Bucky’s chest.

_A dark tunnel, straight sided walls carved into the earth. Support beams are braced against the low ceiling, the halogen lights embedded in them casting out circles of light on the uneven floor, bringing pieces of wood and broken bricks piled on top of the rusting tracks into sharp relief.  
A train stands on one of the tracks, its blue painted exterior flaking and rusted. Beyond that a black monolith, carved from a single slab of obsidian, arcane sigils glow dull amber across the surface, surrounding a hole bored into the center. Beneath it lies an altar, draped in broken chains.  
Two men, still dressed in their Strike uniforms, drag a third across the floor. Despite the dirt and darkness Bucky would know Steve anywhere, shouts his name even though he knows it will not be heard.  
“I think he broke my jaw,” whines one of the men following the group, rubbing at the swelling forming on his cheek. Another tells him to shut up as Steve is dragged before the altar.  
Pierce steps out of the shadows, his tailored suit discarded for a black robe, edged with flames. Rumlow and his pal stand either side of him, hands on their weapons.  
“You thought you could escape?” Pierce murmurs, taking Steve’s chin in hand and tilting it up to the light. Steve’s lip is split, a thin trickle of blood tracking through the dust on his chin, and he glares up at Pierce defiantly. “Yup,” he rasps.  
“Sleep,” Pierce whispers, the spell heavy on the air, weighing Steve down.  
He grimaces, squaring his shoulders, and pulls away from Pierce’s hold. “Guess I’m not sleepy.”  
Pierce growls, visibly frustrated, and grasps him by the hair, tilting his head back. “I will burn the insolence from you,” he seethes, his skin flaring dark and gold, like embers in coals.  
He wraps his other hand around Steve’s throat, and though his fingers flicker with light, orange and red and white, Steve does not burn.  
“That’s not gonna work,” Steve grins. “You see I’m a little bit fireproof.”  
Pierce roars in frustration, shoving him away, and Steve catches himself before he can fall. “Chain him up,” he snarls to Rumlow. “And this time don’t let him escape.”_

Luis lets go, and Bucky stumbles backwards, arms wheeling as he wobbles somewhere between demanding to go back and trying to punch the fuckers who dare lay a hand on Steve.  
“Woah, big guy.” Clint manages to grab hold of Bucky’s left arm, wrapping a corner of blanket over the bright silver before it gets them an audience. “Settle down.”  
“You saw Steve?” Wanda asks, and Bucky can only manage a nod.  
“He’s alright?” Nat adds, drawing them all back into a huddle against the wall.  
“He was… he was in a tunnel.” Bucky tries to hold on to the last fading afterimage. “An abandoned tunnel.”  
“What did it look like?” Pietro pulls out his phone and starts searching. “Any numbers or signs or…”  
Bucky shakes his head, frustrated. “There was crap on the floor, wood and bricks. And… and an old train.”  
“An abandoned tunnel,” Nat frowns. “There can’t be many of them.”  
“Well,” Pietro holds up his phone. “Since Amtrak stopped using the Northeast Corridor there’ll be a whole lot more.”  
Bucky swears, loud enough for a passerby to glance his way. He tries to think of something more, but the memory is fading faster than he can describe it. “The train was blue. Dark blue, high sides, pretty old-looking.”  
“Uh.” Barton clears his throat. “Don’t ask, but I think I know where that is.”

Without another word, Barton leads them back out onto the street and up Lexington Avenue.  
They stick out like sore thumbs, a cluster of mismatched weirdos, nearly half of them wrapped head to toe in IKEA blankets and Nat carrying a suspicious-looking parcel, but the people of New York City gamely ignore them as they follow Barton along the street.  
“So, this isn’t a tragic backstory, alright?” Barton says as they wait for the lights to change at the crossing. “But when I was a kid I thought it would be pretty cool if I could…” He glances at Nat. “Break into places.”  
“Oh, dear God,” she sighs.  
“I didn’t steal anything,” Barton adds hastily. “I just liked knowing I could get into places, taking a look around. I thought breaking into the Waldorf would be fun.”  
Nat makes a sound that, by rights, only dogs can hear. “Clinton _Francis_ Barton!”  
“I didn’t steal anything!” He holds up his hands. “I swear on all my necessary organs. But I did find a big brass door.”  
He turns, taking them down a side street, and pauses, looking around to see if anyone’s watching. There are a few nondescript doors along one side of a building, with whitewashed boards around them, and Barton heads over to one. After a moment of watching him struggle, out of practice, Nat goes over to join him.  
“Дурак,” she says fondly. “Let me try.”  
A minute later there is a click, and the door swings open.

On the other side of the door, just in from the street, is a set of large, shiny brass doors. Solid brass, Bucky raps it with a silver knuckle and listens to the bright, bell-like clang it emits. There is a sign on one that reads ‘Metro North Emergency Exit’.  
“Okay, so you weren’t making that up,” Bucky concedes, and Barton gets to work on the lock.  
After a few minutes of soft cussing and high whining, the door finally opens, revealing an elevator shaft large enough to drive a sedan into.  
Nat gives the lift a cursory look as Clint pulls open the heavy steel door barring the way. “I don’t suppose there’s any other way down?”  
“Nope.” Clint pulls back a shutter inset from the doorway and steps into the elevator, beckoning them all in.  
“And they’ll hear us coming and be ready for us.”  
“Yep.” Barton checks the control panel fixed to the wall. “No cover either.”  
“Great,” she mutters, and dumps the package of weaponry on the floor, crouching down to unwrap it.  
Bucky follows the others into the elevator, tossing his blanket into the corner as the couple sort through their weapons, Barton whistling to himself as he assembles his bow while Nat secures grenades and guns in her layers of clothing. Barton waves to Bucky, who pulls the heavy outer door closed, followed by the shutter, slamming it into place.  
“Bow and arrow,” Pietro asks incredulously.  
“Yeah, bow and arrow,” Barton’s voice pitches up defensively. “Silver tipped ones too. So if we meet any vampires you’ll be laughing on the other side of your smug little face, kid.”  
“Actually, the New York chapter have sworn off eating people,” Luis interjects. “Cholesterol, y’see.” Barton glares at him. “I guess if you’re immortal you gotta watch your diet an’ stuff?”  
Barton utters a low growl and slams the control panel, and the elevator begins its slow descent.

“Little Red?” Bucky murmurs as Clint and Nat take their positions. “If you wanna get behind me, no one’s gonna say a thing. You know that, right?”  
She flicks her hair out of her eyes, masking fear with irritation. “Steve’s my friend too.”  
“I know he is,” Bucky says softly. She says nothing more, and he takes her silence they way it’s intended.  
Luis carefully folds up his blanket before putting it on the floor, and twists his head to the side and balling his webbed hands into fists.  
“Okay, Luis? You’re behind me. Little Red, you’re on my right. The rest of you…” Bucky draws in a breath as the elevator shudders to a halt before a tarnished steel door. “Try not to die.”  
Wanda curls her hands beside him, red mist wreathing her body. On Bucky’s other side Pietro hunches down, his feet braced against the steel floor, ready to run.  
Bucky slips off his overcoat and tosses it to one side, and checks that the Samaritan is at his hip. “Let’s go.”  
At a twist of Wanda’s fingers the mist curls around the steel shutter, seeping through the latticework. She flicks her wrists, shoving both hands forward in a brutal gesture. The shutter fragments as the metal door flies off its hinges, slamming into the defected Strike team gathered outside the door and smashing them into the opposite wall.

They split up, Barton and Nat moving into the shadows to pick off defected Strike agents one by one, while Bucky and Wanda tear through the middle of the train tracks. Bucky takes the lead, bullets pinging uselessly off his chest as he splays his silver hand, cupping his palm and deflecting the shots fired at him. He’s wary of any ricochet hitting the others, but anyone standing in front of him deserves whatever’s coming. The idiots keep on firing, even when Bucky is right on top of them, taking them down one by one with a punch to the head.  
Pietro zips between the men, casing chaos, and Luis follows after him at a more sedate pace, throwing punches left and right and knocking them down with a swipe of his tail.  
It sucks, as the twins would put it, seeing someone you know from work pointing a gun at you, pulling the trigger. It must be worse for Barton, who Bucky sees hesitate out the corner of his eye. Nat comes out of nowhere with her twin glocks, taking the guy down with a single bullet. She yells at him to stop pulling his punches before disappearing into the dark again. Barton shouts after her, before drawing an arrow from his quiver and firing an explosive round into the far wall.  
The concussive blast nearly knocks Bucky off his feet, and sends Wanda flying into the air. She throws out her hands, red flaring up from her spreads fingers, and hovers for a moment, feet kicking instinctively until she pulls them under control. In the dim light Bucky can see the train carriage from Luis’ vision up ahead, a familiar shape chained to the side.  
_Steve_.

Pierce is nowhere to be seen, nor is Rumlow and his buddy, and Bucky ploughs through the remaining defectors to get to the carriage.  
Steve had been chained up, manacled at the wrists and ankles, as well as a dozen or more chains wrapped around his torso and shoulders. Now he’s dangling from his left arm by a couple of chains, the rest of them hanging loosely around him, crumpled in places like tinfoil.  
His shirt is torn a little, and there is a smear of dried blood on his lip, the cut already healed.  
Much later, after a lie down and a gallon of coffee, Bucky will admit that he looks fine mussed up a little.  
He grins up, worried and relieved at the same time, and Steve grins back at him. “Hey.”  
“Hey yourself.” Bucky raises his silver hand and gives a little wave, pausing to turn around and punch the guy sneaking up behind him with a stun baton. The body hits the ground with a muffled thud. “Sorry I’m late.”  
There is a dull clang of boots on the roof of the train carriage. A voice low and oddly melodious, filled with the hiss and crackle of a balefire, calls down to them.  
“Sviga lævi.”  
Bucky looks up to see Pierce standing on the carriage, flanked by Rumlow and Rollins. His black robe seems to flicker and twist in the gloom, his eyes dull embers.  
“My name is Bucky.”  
Pierce’s expression turns sour, his mouth twisting. “I had hoped you would come willing, and march at my side as we bring the world to order.”  
“Nah.” Bucky reaches for the Samaritan, but Pierce moves faster. 

A wall of heat batters against Bucky, hammering down on his back, on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees. Fire, white hot and lightning fast, scours through his veins, until it feels like lava boiling under his skin, making him glow with unearthly light. He throws his head back, the fire searing his bones until there is no part of him that isn’t screaming in pain. He bares his teeth, clenching his jaw as if they might shatter under the strain, and feels the colour of his eyes burn away, flames dripping down his cheeks like tears.  
The stubs of his horns blacken, the outer layer crumbling away to reveal a molten core, stretching and twisting as they grow, extending up in a sweeping curve to sharp, twisting points.  
Bucky’s mouth drops open, a whisper of burning breath shimmering in the air before him.  
Pierce watches the transformation, his eyes bright and hungry. “You cannot fight you destiny, Sviga lævi. If you will not come willing, then I will have to use _force_.”  
Pierce throws up his hands, and the light under Bucky’s skin flares up, burning his shirt to ash as he gasps, breathing through the pain, his silver fingers digging into the dirt and causing the refuse around him to smoulder and burn at his touch.  
“Bucky?” Steve whispers, and he can’t answer, every breath searing his throat, and it takes every ounce of strength he has not to succumb to the flames.

Everything he cares for, everything he loves, falls away. The twins, Luis, even Steve, drifting out of reach until there is nothing but the fire.  
It wants to live, wants to consume him in an inferno that will leave nothing but ash-  
_No_  
-it hungers, avaricious and restless, ready to rise up and destroy, to remake the world in its own image-  
_You have a choice._  
He clenches his fist, the silver flashing gold in the light. “I _said.” The words burn, each breath drawn in more oxygen to feed the fire within him. “My name.” Douse it. Smother it. Don’t let it out. “Is Bucky.”  
When he opens his eyes, he sees the world in shades of gold and grey, Pierce a smear of phosphorescence in the rising smoke. He points to the obsidian slab, and with his burning eyes Bucky can see the shapes carved on the surface moving. Like the licking of flames, like the twisting of tendrils, they circle the sucking void in the center.  
“You are the key,” Pierce commands, and it would be so easy, so painless, to obey. “Open the Bifrost. You have seen your future, it is time to fulfill your destiny.”  
“Hey!” A voice cuts through the flames, ricocheting around his burning mind. “You wanna see his future? Here!”_

_Bucky sees himself, his wine-dark skin mottled with amber as it cools. The sheets twisted around him are scorched, but the body his head rests on is unblemished, his cheek pressed to their stomach.  
A hand curls through his hair, teasing out the tangles and brushing against the base of his long, curved horns as Bucky presses his mouth to warm skin, working his way up to the amulet resting on his breastbone, a gold disc embossed with a star in concentric circles…_

“Jesus Christ, Luis!” Steve’s voice, sharp and indignant, cuts through the inferno. “That’s private.”  
Bucky’s head snaps back, as though the words had physical force behind them. An ocean crashing over the flames, dousing them. Colour bleeds back in the red and grey world, and at the center Steve shines like a star wrought in blue and gold.  
“Yeah,” the words rasp out of Bucky’s mouth before he realises what he’s doing. “That’s-”  
He swallows, tasting ash, and looks up at Steve. “Wait, that was you?”  
Steve, still tangled up in chains, flushes a little as he nods. With his free hand he touches the amulet resting against his chest. “Except for this. You… you thought it was yours?”  
This is the worst possible place, and the worst possible time to be having this conversation, but Bucky manages to nod. He feels off-kilter, disoriented, the weight of his horns making him off-balanced.  
“Uh. Yeah.” He tilts his head to the side, getting used to their weight. “But with more. Um. You know... ”  
He turns around and there is Wanda, grounded again, her hands raised though there is no mist curling around her fingers. Pietro has one hand on Luis, ready to drag him to safety. There’s no way he’s finishing that sentence in front of the twins.  
“He means sex, yo,” Luis shouts helpfully, and Bucky gives Steve a pained, apologetic look while the twins make horrified noises.  
Steve doesn’t seem to mind too much.  
Steve looks _delighted_.  
“Okay,” he says, soft enough that Bucky can barely hear. “Okay.” 

“Enough!” Pierce roars, turning to Rumlow while he gestures to the gathering at his feet. “Kill them.”  
Rumlow brandishes an assault rifle and walks over to the ledge of the train, while Rollins jumps down from the other side, his sights set on Barton.  
Steve twists around in his chains, bracing his feet against the side of the train and yanking his arm back, the last of the chains tearing like wet paper. He lands lightly on the ground, taking a step back as Rumlow launches himself after him.  
Bucky has no doubt that Steve can take care of himself, he’s seen how fast the guy can run. Besides, he has a promise to keep.  
“Little Red?” He yells over his shoulder. “Give me a boost.”  
No further explanation is needed, and red mist suddenly surrounds him, cold against his feverish skin as he is snapped up into the air. He catches sight of the fight going on below, of Nat facing off against Rollins only to have Barton come up behind him and take him out. Further along Steve landing blow after blow on Rumlow while Wanda lifts up chunks of masonry, dropping them down on the bastard's head.  
He lands heavily on the carriage roof, coming face to face with Pierce. “I ain’t opening your gate,” he growls. “So you best put that out your mind.”  
“Fool,” Pierce snarls, throwing back his robe and withdrawing a flaming sword from its depths. “You were brought forth from the void. You can be sent back.”  
He lunges forward, an overarm swing that Bucky easily avoids, one eye on the ledge. Below, the fight has come to a sudden stop, Rumlow lying motionless at Steve’s feet. 

“The key,” Bucky points to the obsidian slab as Pierce takes another swing at him. “Break it!”  
Steve nods in understanding, snatching up a piece of concrete and throwing it at the slab. It shatters to powder on impact.  
Pierce slashes at Bucky again, faster this time. The old bastard must have been bluffing before, because he’s quick when he wants to be. Bucky dodges the strike by a hair’s breadth, almost toppling from the carriage as he hears Nat below shout to Steve, tossing him a grenade.  
Bucky rolls out the way of another strike, catching hold of the ledge and watching Steve pull the pin from a grenade and throw it into the sucking void at the center of the slab, the symbols around it suddenly squirming and thrashing. Pierce stands over him, flaming sword raised above his head. He brings it down two-handed, and Bucky reches up with his silver hand to grab the blade, the shock of impact ricocheting down his arm.  
He still has one hand free, and grabs the Samaritan, bringing it out and up.  
At this range he wastes no time in aiming, just clenches his teeth and pulls the trigger.  
Pierce drops the sword the same moment a low, muffled sound fills the tunnel, like a distant strike of hammer on anvil, or the movement of tectonic plates deep under the earth. The black slab shudders, trembling in the gloom, and cracks in two.  
“Little flame,” Surtr whispers, clutching hands to his bloodied chest. “What have you done?”  
He shudders, staring sightlessly down at Bucky still lying at his feet, and tumbles from the carriage, landing in a broken heap on the tracks. 

Bucky lets his head drop against the carriage roof with a dull thump. There’s no part of him that doesn’t ache, from the lingering burn under his skin to the tremors in his silver arm.  
“Marco?” he rasps, his breath catching a little. He’s coated in ash and dirt, his throat scalded and dry.  
“Polo,” comes the chorus below, Steve’s voice clear among them.  
_Steve_.  
Bucky rolls over, grasping the railing around the side of the carriage and easing himself down to the ground, careful to avoid the remains of Pierce, his limbs twisted in unnatural angles, his sightless eyes fixed on distant lands.  
The others circle around him, shaken and unsteady on their feet; Barton limping and supported by Nat, Wanda leaning into her brother's embrace. Luis has an arm around Steve, but lets go as Bucky stumbles towards them, Samaritan hanging limply from his hand. Luis gives Steve an encouraging shove, urging him forward.  
“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, his relief palpable as he walks over to meet him halfway.  
Bucky pauses, holstering the Samaritan and reaching into his pocket to pull out the amulet, the gold flashing in the dull light. “I made you this.”  
Steve reaches out for it, turning the face up to the light, his eyes shining in recognition. Bucky takes it from him, unravelling the chain with clumsy hands, and Steve bows his head. It seems to take forever to loop the chain around his neck, to tuck the gold disc under the collar of his shirt to lie with the other one.  
“I…” Bucky begins, too much to say and no idea how to begin, and Steve leans in and kisses him. 

Pietro makes a loud noise of disgust, and noisily clomps back to the elevator, Wanda at his side.  
“You owe me thirty bucks,” Nat tells Clint, who grumbles good-naturedly but reaches for his wallet while she holds him upright.  
Steve’s mouth is insistant against Bucky’s, teeth grazing his lips until they part, and Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, tongue darting into his impatient mouth. Steve sighs, contented, curling his fingers in Bucky’s hair as he sucks and nibbles. Soft breaths and sharp gasps coaxing him into giving more.  
It is sweeter than honey, richer than wine, and Bucky wants nothing more than to exist in this moment, this thin slice of existence with Steve’s body warm against his own. But it’s not a place to linger, even if Steve has taken it upon himself to gnaw off Bucky’s tongue at the root, and if they carry on like this someone’s gonna start making a fuss.  
“Uh. Guys?” Luis says quietly.  
Like that.  
Bucky moves his hands to Steve’s hips and gives the slightest push.  
“Seriously guys,” Luis says a little more loudly. “Should that be happening?”  
Steve breaks away, and Bucky gives his jaw a surreptitious massage. It’s been a long day, no one can blame him for being a little sore.  
He looks over at where Luis is pointing. Pierce’s body, broken and twisted. But there is a faint odour of smoke rising up from the body. A crackle and hiss of something catching, burning.  
“Get topside,” Bucky says lowly, urgently. “Now.” 

Wanda and Pietro refuse to go up with the others, standing their ground and insisting on staying put. There’s no time to argue with them, and Bucky shoves Luis into the elevator with Clint and Nat.  
“But-” he starts.  
“Nope.” He turns to Nat. “Trouble’s coming, you understand? You get out of here, you call the SSR. Hell, call everyone, but first you get out.”  
She nods, stepping back from the open doorway. “Understood.”  
The elevator won't start up without the door, and Bucky steps back so Wanda can take care of it. She stands with her feet slightly apart, her brow furrowed in concentration, and red mist wraps around her hands, an answering cloud curling around the frame of the elevator. With a slow, steady motion upwards, the elevator ascends.  
“What the hell is going on?” Pietro asks quietly as the elevator disappears from sight.  
Bucky shakes his head. “Surtr found a way to cross from the other side.” He looks up at the elevator shaft. “Not all the way, but a crack in the wall between, wide enough to let a bit of him slip through. Pierce, or whoever the hell he was before he became Pierce, brought him back, crawling inside him like a parasite.”  
“But he’s dead,” Pietro says slowly. “He’s dead.”  
“The man who carried that little piece of him is dead.” Bucky reaches out to grab Steve’s hand. “That little piece he carried though…”  
They turn back to look at the body, and see a smouldering crater where it had once lain. Bucky tugs on Steve’s hand, getting his attention.  
“What he said about my destiny,” he says quietly. It’s only fair to warn him. “It could still happen. Someday.”  
Steve leans in to kiss him, a brief, firm press of lips that Bucky is already getting accustomed to. “Then we’ll make sure it doesn’t.”  
Flames lick up the edges of the crater, and something vast within begins to stir.  
“What do we do?” Wanda asks, red dripping from her splayed hands.  
Bucky unholsters the Samaritan. “We fight.” 

The ground shakes, and with a bellow of rage Surtr bursts forth. He is huge, monstrous, towering over them as he climbs out of the pit. His body a mass of coal black and flame red, a constant shifting of flowing lava in human form. His eyes burn like the heart of twin stars, and upon his head sits a crown of blackened ore, a pair of spikes jutting out from the circlet like horns.  
“Oh, that’s intense,” Bucky murmurs as Surtr straightens up, his head and shoulders pressing against the roof of the tunnel.  
For an instant he stands, unmoving, braced against the roof of the tunnel like Atlas shouldering the world. Then he utters a sound of absolute rage, a bass note that shakes through Bucky’s bones and rattles his teeth, and forces his way up, iron support struts and cross beams crumpling under the pressure as he punches his way out. Every piece of wood that brushes the inferno of his body ignites instantly, raining burning debris down.  
“He’s going up to the surface!” Steve yells over the cacophony of buckling steel and shattering stone.  
Surtr drives his fist into the widening crater forming above him.  
“The crown!” Bucky points to Surtr’s head, straining upwards. “We gotta break it, take it off. He’s powerless without it.” 

Surtr strikes again, smashing through concrete and girders and punching through to the street above. Asphalt rains down around him, chunks of road and paving slabs tumbling into the tunnel.  
Bucky cocks the Samaritan and starts running, swerving to one side as a car falls into the widening gap, its headlights strobing across the tunnel walls. It smashes into the rubble front first and tips onto its roof, the occupant clutching the steering wheel and screaming at the sight of Surtr climbing up.  
Another car plummets down, and Bucky jumps to avoid it, one foot catching Surtr’s bent knee and using it to boost himself up.  
“Wanda?” Steve calls out behind him. “I need a boost!”  
There is a flare of red, and Wanda propels Steve into the air. He lands on Surtr’s arm, quickly regaining his balance and scrambling up. Surtr sees him, lifting his hand to swat Steve away, and Bucky raises the Samaritan, firing at his splayed hand.  
There is a spray of lava, and Surtr roars his displeasure, shaking back and forth in an attempt to dislodge his attackers. Steve grabs hold of one of the dark, volcanic juts of his shoulder and holds on, while Bucky launches himself at Surtr’s face, silver fist balled tightly as he punches him in the jaw.  
It does nothing, of course it doesn’t, but it distracts him long enough for Steve to get moving again. 

With another furious roar Surtr hauls himself up onto Park Avenue, cars swerving around him and spinning out of control as he rises. Though the sun is setting, the city is bright as daylight with the streetlights and traffic, and Surtr glows amongst it all like a forest fire.  
Bucky climbs up the planes of Surtr’s chests, dangling like a spider. He’s vulnerable, horribly exposed, and Surtr looks down at him, hand raised to strike. Bucky screws his eyes shut, bracing for an impact that never comes. When he opens them again, Surtr is staring at his hand, shrouded in red mist and motionless.  
Wanda.  
She is hovering in midair before them, arms outstretched. Down below the people who aren’t screaming and running are getting out of their cars to take pictures, and Pierto is speeding among them, pulling the ones who are standing too close to the edge of the pit to safety.  
Surtr shakes off Wanda’s hold, staggering back and plunging his hand through the glass and chrome exterior of a bank as he straightens up. He glares down at the cars clustered around him, horns honking and wheels spinning.  
Steve manages to get up to the crown first, and before Surtr can try and grab him again Bucky shoves the muzzle of the Samaritan under his chin and pulls the trigger.  
Surtr flinches, and Bucky empties the entire clip, clinging on for dear life as he stumbles forward and crashes into J. P. Morgan.  
“Steve?” Bucky yells, taking the chance to climb up while Surtr is disoriented. From his vantage point he looks down at the street below. People staring up at them as Wanda sends a flare of red mist to wrap around Surtr’s crown.  
There is a van in the distance, haring along the inside lane and riding up onto the sidewalk, Carter Logistics emblazoned on the side. 

Steve is already hanging onto one of the protruding spikes of Surtr’s crown, legs dangling, as Bucky climbs up to join him. A news helicopter veers up before them, rotor blades a blur in front of Surtr’s face. He lashes out like a man swatting a fly, and Wanda sends a flicker of red mist over to it, nudging it just out of his grasp.  
“Bucky?” Steve yells, bracing his feet against Surtr’s shoulder.  
Bucky nods, grabbing hold of the other jutting spike. “Now!” Bucky yells, and shoves with everything he has.  
For a brief, terrible moment nothing happens. The combined force of Bucky, Steve and Wanda doesn’t even make the crown shift. Surtr howls, outraged, tossing his head back and forth, and the crown suddenly gives.  
Surtr lets out a last, wounded cry as the edges of him curl up like burning paper, blackened pieces of him fly away as if carried by the breeze, and from one second to the next he crumbles to dust.  
Bucky lets out a yelp, freefalling, and hears a low grunt of pain from Steve beside him before they are both suspended, weightless in midair, red mist curling around them.  
The crown crashes down, embedding itself in the concrete with a dull, muffled sound like the distant crack of thunder. It lies still and cold, nothing more than a piece of charred iron. 

Steve lands easily on the balls of his feet, stepping down from the mist with practiced grace. Bucky stumbles, but manages to stay upright, and a moment later Wanda is on the ground with them, throwing herself into Bucky’s open arms.  
“Oof! Easy there, Little Red,” he says gently. She curses him under her breath, pressing her face to his chest and getting soot smears on her cheek.  
“How are the others?” Steve asks, looking around. He freezes suddenly, and Bucky glances up.  
Pietro seems fine, he’s watching over by the traffic jam, sweet talking a reporter. Luis is waving at them from the Carter Logistics van, where Barton is being patched up by a medical team and gesturing wildly to the crater in the middle of Park Avenue. Hill nods patiently as he throws his arms around, and sends a team to retrieve the crown.  
Nat is nowhere to be seen, no doubt hightailing it as soon as the reporters arrived.  
_Oh. Oh crap._  
Reporters. There are reporters. And people. Lots of people, all staring and holding up their phones.  
“Steve?” Bucky says quietly as Wanda pulls away, turning around to see what’s gotten him so spooked.  
The reporter talking to Pietro takes a cautious step towards them, and Steve reaches out to takes Bucky’s hand, pale fingers intertwining with red.  
“I guess you’re not a ghost story,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face, the kind that doesn’t just tug at his mouth and crease up his eyes, the kind that makes him shine like the sun.  
“Sir?” The reporter comes closer, holding out a microphone, and Steve’s grip on Bucky’s fingers tightens, warm and proud.  
“Bucky.” He flashes his teeth. “But you can call me Hellboy.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blbec - idiot  
> Дурак - fool


End file.
